First published in The Evening Sun on December 26, 2010:
Last month, on November 23, as the sun set over the steep cobbled streets of Old San Juan in Puerto Rico, poets from all over the island gathered in Poets’ Passage, a weekly reading series in the heart of San Juan. However, that week, the poets were in for a special treat.
A visiting poet from Hanover, PA and former Poet Laureate, Michael J. Hoover, took the stage to read from his newly released book, “Better Left Unsaid.” Released November 15, all the poets took pleasure in celebrating his first official reading from the text and his accomplishment in publishing his first book of poems. Best of all, everyone in the room relished the opportunity to see the world through Hoover’s eyes and words.
One of the best images to describe a poets’ vision is a sunglass lens. Just as they come in different colors and shades and shapes, each poet has a different lens that allows him or her to see the world in a specific way.
If you could wear Hoover’s poet sunglasses, you would see everything in moonlight. Although one of his favorite images, the moon, appears in his first book, all of his poems live in their own sense of lighting. Though the light is sometimes eerie, sometimes soft, his nights are always crisp and clear.
The moon has definitely influenced “Better Left Unsaid.” Hoover describes one poem, “Keening Moon,” as “a love poem.” He took the “images from the year [he] spent watching the moon every night on walks.” His nightly routine certainly layered this poem with much color and emotion.
Keening Moon
Your waning weighs
each day as you ascend
burdened with summer.
Frozen eyes plead with an empty sky.
Your voiceless cry almost unseen;
orange blush pales to pastel yellow--
O sculpted lunacy,
marbled face
in seasonal sorrow,
don't fade to white this August night--
wait on the promise of harvest.
In the forward to his book, former Poet Laureate Dana Sauers writes: “’Better Left Unsaid’ is a poetic statement of unabashed courage that dares plumb the waters of self and other-examination while also relating universal relevancy, a place where even ‘tainted certainty’ must be acknowledged. His images are at once clear and precise. The works combine both subtle and raking sounds to produce a genuinely holistic experience.”
She continues, “Michael J. Hoover is a master of symbol, irony and tempered, periodically restrained, tone; his commentary ranges from the serenade of heart's song through the satirical to the sardonic. His vision acknowledges an acceptance of ‘God’s purse where there is no change.’”
The book’s title “Better Left Unsaid” manifests itself in several ways throughout the poems. In fact, one of Hoover’s poems has the same title. As poets, themes become so important to our work, and it amazes us how fluidly themes can run through a collection of our work.
Of his theme of leaving things unsaid, Hoover writes, “Isn’t the second half of art, and for that matter truth, and perhaps life, what is not presented, or revealed, or lived? Isn’t it what our brain absorbs and stores for mulling in recollection or imagination? A memory is formed not only by what we are conscious of at a particular time, but also by what the subconscious senses.
We may consciously be taking in words, and the pictures or images they stimulate, yet be unaware that we are soaking in the sounds of words as well, which may enrich the experience, perhaps without our being fully aware of the particulars.”
He continues, “So, by extension, the poems in “Better Left Unsaid” present themselves as comments about relationship, literally, by what the audience can take away from each narrative and the collective narrative, and also figuratively, by applying the poems to their own experience or merely by enjoying the structure or sound or individual images or metaphors and simply being satisfied or made curious by the manipulation of language and its subsequent effects.”
I hope each of you has the opportunity to experience this relationship with Hoover’s poetry. “Better Left Unsaid” is available at Xlibris.com, and Hoover will read from his new book in Annapolis on January 8, 2011 at Ahh! Coffee at 6:30 p.m. and at Gunnar Gallery in Gettysburg sometime later in January. Then, on March 23, 2011, Hoover will read at the Lancaster Poetry Exchange at the Lancaster Barnes and Noble at 7:30 p.m.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
November Column
First published in The Evening Sun on November 27, 2010:
"Being thankful both acknowledges and maintains the physical and spiritual relationship between ourselves and the rest of Creation." With these words, poet Joseph Bruchac connects Native American culture and thanksgiving.
Bruchac, a prolific writer, has been able to trace his Native American roots back to the early 17th century. He explains that his "grandfather, Jesse Bowman, was Abenaki, but tried to hide his identity--despite his appearance and the way he lived--because of the prejudice against Indians."
As we reflect on our Thanksgiving celebrations and traditions, I'd like to honor the spirit of Native Americans and their words. Bruchac writes, "It is a very complicated holiday for American Indians-- sometimes referred to as the American Indian day of Mourning, for those Pilgrims, whose survival was aided by American Indians, then turned around a few years later and made war on the surrounding tribal nations, decimating them."
Yet, despite this history, Native American poetry reflects a sense of peace and unity, a testament to their resilience. Upon reading Bruchac's poems, I felt an instant connection to his words, especially in his poem "Prayer." The images in this poem create their own vibrant world, while also invoking a sense of comfort, derived from both reality and imagination.
Of his poem "Prayer," Bruchac writes, "It's a result of feeling, at a moment of waking, that we are related to everything, that we are not separate from the rest of life or above it all in dominion, that we are a humble part of it all and need to try to do our best, to work with our hands and with our hearts in a good way."
Prayer
Let my words
be bright with animals,
images the flash of a gull's wing.
If we pretend
that we are at the center,
that moles and kingfishers,
eels and coyotes
are at the edge of grace,
then we circle, dead moons
about a cold sun.
This morning I ask only
the blessing of the crayfish,
the beatitude of the birds;
to wear the skin of the bear
in my songs;
to work like a man with my hands.
Among Native American cultural traditions, the idea of giving thanks abounds, especially in the written word. Below, Bruchac mentions one such Iroquois tradition, called the "Thanksgiving Address":
"The Thanksgiving Address is most often spoken by Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) elders like my dear late friend Chief Jake Swamp at the start of a gathering. It gives greetings and thanks to every aspect of the natural world, from our mother the Earth, to the waters, the plants, animals, birds, winds, sun, moon, stars, the Creator, and all people. It reminds us of the way we are all connected and of the importance of giving thanks, being truly thankful and behaving in a thankful way."
Another of Bruchac's poems, "Tsaile Dawn" touches on many of the same themes: the interconnectedness of nature, the constancy of its support, and thankfulness for its gifts.
Tsaile Dawn
Coming down
the northwestern slope
just after dawn
from Canyon de Chelly
toward Tsaile
the Chuska Range wears a mantle
of gray rain clouds
like an ancient woman
still beautiful in her turkey feather robe.
The road edges are carpeted
yellow with rabbitbush and snakeweed
as many-headed sunflowers
turn
to drink
the silvered morning light.
We are here, we are here,
all the old ones sing
in the dawn that never leaves us.
As I reflect on the many things I'm grateful for, I realize the power of poetry in my life. Poetry has connected me to you, and to many writers all over the world. Bruchac echoes this gratitude: "I'm thankful that I have a voice, that there are so many unique voices in poetry, as varied as the songs of the wind. It's really cool that there is always space for a new poet, a new poem, a new song--just as each human being is unique, but also part of the circle."
"Being thankful both acknowledges and maintains the physical and spiritual relationship between ourselves and the rest of Creation." With these words, poet Joseph Bruchac connects Native American culture and thanksgiving.
Bruchac, a prolific writer, has been able to trace his Native American roots back to the early 17th century. He explains that his "grandfather, Jesse Bowman, was Abenaki, but tried to hide his identity--despite his appearance and the way he lived--because of the prejudice against Indians."
As we reflect on our Thanksgiving celebrations and traditions, I'd like to honor the spirit of Native Americans and their words. Bruchac writes, "It is a very complicated holiday for American Indians-- sometimes referred to as the American Indian day of Mourning, for those Pilgrims, whose survival was aided by American Indians, then turned around a few years later and made war on the surrounding tribal nations, decimating them."
Yet, despite this history, Native American poetry reflects a sense of peace and unity, a testament to their resilience. Upon reading Bruchac's poems, I felt an instant connection to his words, especially in his poem "Prayer." The images in this poem create their own vibrant world, while also invoking a sense of comfort, derived from both reality and imagination.
Of his poem "Prayer," Bruchac writes, "It's a result of feeling, at a moment of waking, that we are related to everything, that we are not separate from the rest of life or above it all in dominion, that we are a humble part of it all and need to try to do our best, to work with our hands and with our hearts in a good way."
Prayer
Let my words
be bright with animals,
images the flash of a gull's wing.
If we pretend
that we are at the center,
that moles and kingfishers,
eels and coyotes
are at the edge of grace,
then we circle, dead moons
about a cold sun.
This morning I ask only
the blessing of the crayfish,
the beatitude of the birds;
to wear the skin of the bear
in my songs;
to work like a man with my hands.
Among Native American cultural traditions, the idea of giving thanks abounds, especially in the written word. Below, Bruchac mentions one such Iroquois tradition, called the "Thanksgiving Address":
"The Thanksgiving Address is most often spoken by Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) elders like my dear late friend Chief Jake Swamp at the start of a gathering. It gives greetings and thanks to every aspect of the natural world, from our mother the Earth, to the waters, the plants, animals, birds, winds, sun, moon, stars, the Creator, and all people. It reminds us of the way we are all connected and of the importance of giving thanks, being truly thankful and behaving in a thankful way."
Another of Bruchac's poems, "Tsaile Dawn" touches on many of the same themes: the interconnectedness of nature, the constancy of its support, and thankfulness for its gifts.
Tsaile Dawn
Coming down
the northwestern slope
just after dawn
from Canyon de Chelly
toward Tsaile
the Chuska Range wears a mantle
of gray rain clouds
like an ancient woman
still beautiful in her turkey feather robe.
The road edges are carpeted
yellow with rabbitbush and snakeweed
as many-headed sunflowers
turn
to drink
the silvered morning light.
We are here, we are here,
all the old ones sing
in the dawn that never leaves us.
As I reflect on the many things I'm grateful for, I realize the power of poetry in my life. Poetry has connected me to you, and to many writers all over the world. Bruchac echoes this gratitude: "I'm thankful that I have a voice, that there are so many unique voices in poetry, as varied as the songs of the wind. It's really cool that there is always space for a new poet, a new poem, a new song--just as each human being is unique, but also part of the circle."
Sunday, October 24, 2010
October Column
First published in The Evening Sun on October 24, 2010:
We all make lists. Whether it is our to-do list for the week or our grocery list, these mental jottings serve an important purpose in our lives. When we make a list, we no longer have the burden of remembering these items. The piece of paper holds them for us.
Writing poetry can mirror this process. Sometimes we have so many items in our hearts that they begin to weigh us down emotionally, mentally, and even physically. However, if we are able to write these things down, in the same way a grocery list relieves us of mental burden, a poem can hold the other burdens we store inside.
On October 12, this is how I introduced poetry to two groups of seventh graders at the Young Women’s Leadership Conference at Gettysburg College. Knowing that middle school can be a difficult time, I emphasized writing’s role as an outlet. In fact, I first turned to writing poetry in ninth grade in order to release stress.
Thanks to technology, I was able to Skype into the classroom and lead the groups of young women in creating a poem. When the fifteen seventh graders walked into the room, I was already there, my face on a computer screen. I watched them file into the room. Some waved. Others stared. These young women had spent all morning attending leadership talks.
As they introduced themselves, each young woman described herself in a single word, and the room began to fill with personalities. I deemed them all poets on the spot for being capable of summarizing themselves into a single word. Little did I know how much their words in our session would continue to impress me.
It was my hope that each young woman would be able to experience the process of writing as an outlet in our session. So, along with the other facilitators, Andria Hoffman and Lisa Breslin, I asked the ladies to write a line in response to the following prompt: Has anyone ever said something to you that was so kind or so mean that you will never forget it?
The young women took ten minutes to create a line to share with the group, which then became a part of a collaborative poem. The two poems they created, one in each session, were incredible. I want to thank all the young women for sharing experiences so close to their hearts and commend them for their courage and raw talent as poets. I would also like to thank Andria Hoffman for her role in creating and organizing the poetry sessions at the conference. It was her vision that made these poems possible.
I’ve included one of the poems below. As you read the words of these young women, I hope that you will be inspired, not only by the genius of their metaphors, but also by the power poetry has to speak on behalf of our silent desires.
In the midst of all the tragic bullying in the news lately, it is refreshing to read strong, young voices turning negativity into something brighter. In this way, the young women allow themselves to shine in the light they have created through language. If you feel inspired, please post your own words of light on my blog.
Shine
Sometimes words ring in my ears like church bells,
grow as heavy as a ton of bricks
until I decide to release them.
Lost in the horrific darkness, the inescapable:
four dark words surrounding me until I break free.
Have you ever heard how peaceful silence is
until one terrible word breaks it?
“You will never be good enough,”
the short snicker a stake through my heart.
Yet, nothing is impossible -- I can do anything and shine.
My thoughts flicker on and off like stars in a midnight sky
dance in my heart like ballerinas during their first recital.
No one can take that from me.
“We will always be proud of you no matter what anyone says.”
I feel special and calm -- like I have gone on a walk,
the way I feel with my friends.
My heart is sprinkled with joy;
my day flows like a leaf falling to the ground.
We all make lists. Whether it is our to-do list for the week or our grocery list, these mental jottings serve an important purpose in our lives. When we make a list, we no longer have the burden of remembering these items. The piece of paper holds them for us.
Writing poetry can mirror this process. Sometimes we have so many items in our hearts that they begin to weigh us down emotionally, mentally, and even physically. However, if we are able to write these things down, in the same way a grocery list relieves us of mental burden, a poem can hold the other burdens we store inside.
On October 12, this is how I introduced poetry to two groups of seventh graders at the Young Women’s Leadership Conference at Gettysburg College. Knowing that middle school can be a difficult time, I emphasized writing’s role as an outlet. In fact, I first turned to writing poetry in ninth grade in order to release stress.
Thanks to technology, I was able to Skype into the classroom and lead the groups of young women in creating a poem. When the fifteen seventh graders walked into the room, I was already there, my face on a computer screen. I watched them file into the room. Some waved. Others stared. These young women had spent all morning attending leadership talks.
As they introduced themselves, each young woman described herself in a single word, and the room began to fill with personalities. I deemed them all poets on the spot for being capable of summarizing themselves into a single word. Little did I know how much their words in our session would continue to impress me.
It was my hope that each young woman would be able to experience the process of writing as an outlet in our session. So, along with the other facilitators, Andria Hoffman and Lisa Breslin, I asked the ladies to write a line in response to the following prompt: Has anyone ever said something to you that was so kind or so mean that you will never forget it?
The young women took ten minutes to create a line to share with the group, which then became a part of a collaborative poem. The two poems they created, one in each session, were incredible. I want to thank all the young women for sharing experiences so close to their hearts and commend them for their courage and raw talent as poets. I would also like to thank Andria Hoffman for her role in creating and organizing the poetry sessions at the conference. It was her vision that made these poems possible.
I’ve included one of the poems below. As you read the words of these young women, I hope that you will be inspired, not only by the genius of their metaphors, but also by the power poetry has to speak on behalf of our silent desires.
In the midst of all the tragic bullying in the news lately, it is refreshing to read strong, young voices turning negativity into something brighter. In this way, the young women allow themselves to shine in the light they have created through language. If you feel inspired, please post your own words of light on my blog.
Shine
Sometimes words ring in my ears like church bells,
grow as heavy as a ton of bricks
until I decide to release them.
Lost in the horrific darkness, the inescapable:
four dark words surrounding me until I break free.
Have you ever heard how peaceful silence is
until one terrible word breaks it?
“You will never be good enough,”
the short snicker a stake through my heart.
Yet, nothing is impossible -- I can do anything and shine.
My thoughts flicker on and off like stars in a midnight sky
dance in my heart like ballerinas during their first recital.
No one can take that from me.
“We will always be proud of you no matter what anyone says.”
I feel special and calm -- like I have gone on a walk,
the way I feel with my friends.
My heart is sprinkled with joy;
my day flows like a leaf falling to the ground.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
September Column
First published in The Evening Sun on September 26, 2010:
Since I began writing this column, many people have expressed their desire to respond to my poetry challenges. However, when it was time to send their work out into the world, most lacked the courage to press the send button.
I want to acknowledge the normalcy of this apprehension for all writers. Out of all the types of courage we can show, I believe creative courage is sometimes the hardest. By creative courage, I mean the strength it takes to, first, put a piece of yourself onto the page, and secondly, to make yourself vulnerable to others’ judgments.
Yet, this view of vulnerability is limited. The other possible reception of a poem, one of praise and acceptance, occurs more often. I have found poets to be the most accepting and encouraging community I have ever been a part of. With this more optimistic reception in mind, I ask everyone reading this to have the courage to write a poem, and secondly, to send that poem to me.
Though this week’s feature poet has never been published, after reading her work, I knew her words needed to reach a larger audience. I am happy she had the courage to write and to share her work with me because now I can share it with all of you.
Earlier this month, Sarah Louise Foster sent me a poem titled “Marriage.” In an interview, she revealed to me, “I live on the banks of the beautiful Conewago Creek along a dirt road, with musician husband and two little girls who are full of creative motion— my life is surrounded by poetry.” While reading her poem, you will be able to picture the world she lives in, “where you know the neighbors and stop your car to talk to them, and the only night noises are the barred owls hooting and raccoons chattering.” She develops a metaphor for marriage in this poem, which she filters through her sensibility and surroundings.
Marriage
Marriage is a journey,
This is what they told us.
Those harsh critics of the thing,
Picking their teeth and laughing.
Well – if marriage is a journey Baby
Here’s to yours and mine.
Our journey has been beautiful
Full of twists and turns.
Like an old dirt path,
Constant and steady.
There are patches full of rocks,
Some puddles and hills along the way,
Forests where the sun gets blotted out.
But there’s always a flower,
Around the next bend.
Your eyes are a blue Speedwell,
Constant and pure.
Your arms around me –
The towering hemlock
Strong and forever.
There is always a view,
At the top of our hills.
Marriage is a journey
We were meant to take together,
A barefoot, hand in hand,
Walk along a path.
Foster certainly has a talent for working with metaphor, as she compares marriage to “A barefoot, hand in hand, / Walk along a path.” The walk has moments of darkness, “But there’s always a flower / Around the next bend.” Her poem, mirroring nature itself, gestures toward the realities of marriage, while also emphasizing the graceful moments along the way.
When I asked Foster about her inspiration for this poem, she described how she often expressed her love through nature: “The poem talks about Speedwell which is a tiny blue wildflower I have always loved. When Tim and I were engaged, I was living almost two hours to the West in the mountains of Pennsylvania. After he would make the drive to see me, I picked this little flower and sent it with him as a token of my prayers for his safety on the drive home.” I found this flower a lovely addition to her poem.
Often times, writing poems intimidates people because they think a poem must include a grand gesture toward some epiphany. However, the best poems are often rooted in the little moments unique to each of our lives. Each of us has a perspective to share, informed by a unique set of experiences.
When I asked Foster about what inspires her to write, she responded, “I draw my inspiration from the small things I love in this life. From sitting outside on a sunny, breezy day and watching the patterns the leaves make against the sky, from staring unblinking into the falling snow, from the sound of my daughter’s voices, from the music of my husband’s piano, from the family I grew up with who has loved me unconditionally. It’s those brief moments when emotion unhindered, of any kind, shines from someone’s face that keep me writing.”
With this in mind, I hope you all enjoy a creative day, full of the courage to write and the courage to send your words out into the world. Please feel free to send me your poems at bradyke@gmail.com.
Since I began writing this column, many people have expressed their desire to respond to my poetry challenges. However, when it was time to send their work out into the world, most lacked the courage to press the send button.
I want to acknowledge the normalcy of this apprehension for all writers. Out of all the types of courage we can show, I believe creative courage is sometimes the hardest. By creative courage, I mean the strength it takes to, first, put a piece of yourself onto the page, and secondly, to make yourself vulnerable to others’ judgments.
Yet, this view of vulnerability is limited. The other possible reception of a poem, one of praise and acceptance, occurs more often. I have found poets to be the most accepting and encouraging community I have ever been a part of. With this more optimistic reception in mind, I ask everyone reading this to have the courage to write a poem, and secondly, to send that poem to me.
Though this week’s feature poet has never been published, after reading her work, I knew her words needed to reach a larger audience. I am happy she had the courage to write and to share her work with me because now I can share it with all of you.
Earlier this month, Sarah Louise Foster sent me a poem titled “Marriage.” In an interview, she revealed to me, “I live on the banks of the beautiful Conewago Creek along a dirt road, with musician husband and two little girls who are full of creative motion— my life is surrounded by poetry.” While reading her poem, you will be able to picture the world she lives in, “where you know the neighbors and stop your car to talk to them, and the only night noises are the barred owls hooting and raccoons chattering.” She develops a metaphor for marriage in this poem, which she filters through her sensibility and surroundings.
Marriage
Marriage is a journey,
This is what they told us.
Those harsh critics of the thing,
Picking their teeth and laughing.
Well – if marriage is a journey Baby
Here’s to yours and mine.
Our journey has been beautiful
Full of twists and turns.
Like an old dirt path,
Constant and steady.
There are patches full of rocks,
Some puddles and hills along the way,
Forests where the sun gets blotted out.
But there’s always a flower,
Around the next bend.
Your eyes are a blue Speedwell,
Constant and pure.
Your arms around me –
The towering hemlock
Strong and forever.
There is always a view,
At the top of our hills.
Marriage is a journey
We were meant to take together,
A barefoot, hand in hand,
Walk along a path.
Foster certainly has a talent for working with metaphor, as she compares marriage to “A barefoot, hand in hand, / Walk along a path.” The walk has moments of darkness, “But there’s always a flower / Around the next bend.” Her poem, mirroring nature itself, gestures toward the realities of marriage, while also emphasizing the graceful moments along the way.
When I asked Foster about her inspiration for this poem, she described how she often expressed her love through nature: “The poem talks about Speedwell which is a tiny blue wildflower I have always loved. When Tim and I were engaged, I was living almost two hours to the West in the mountains of Pennsylvania. After he would make the drive to see me, I picked this little flower and sent it with him as a token of my prayers for his safety on the drive home.” I found this flower a lovely addition to her poem.
Often times, writing poems intimidates people because they think a poem must include a grand gesture toward some epiphany. However, the best poems are often rooted in the little moments unique to each of our lives. Each of us has a perspective to share, informed by a unique set of experiences.
When I asked Foster about what inspires her to write, she responded, “I draw my inspiration from the small things I love in this life. From sitting outside on a sunny, breezy day and watching the patterns the leaves make against the sky, from staring unblinking into the falling snow, from the sound of my daughter’s voices, from the music of my husband’s piano, from the family I grew up with who has loved me unconditionally. It’s those brief moments when emotion unhindered, of any kind, shines from someone’s face that keep me writing.”
With this in mind, I hope you all enjoy a creative day, full of the courage to write and the courage to send your words out into the world. Please feel free to send me your poems at bradyke@gmail.com.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
August Column
First published in The Evening Sun on August 22, 2010:
Buenos dias from Puerto Rico! As most of you know, on July first I moved to San Juan, Puerto Rico, where I will soon begin a doctoral program in Caribbean literature. Though the cruise ship commercials portray island life as stress-free and easy, living in any new place can be both a difficult adjustment and a fun adventure.
My time here has been a rollercoaster, experiencing extreme happiness at times, and at others, stress and confusion. However, I made the decision to come here because I know that change and vulnerability encourage growth of the mind and spirit. I live for the good moments and weather the bad with this in mind.
I am a long way from home; yet, no matter how far a poet travels from home, she can always find a second home among her fellow writers. The Poets’ Passage, an artists’ nook beside Starbucks in Old San Juan, takes the prize for my favorite place here so far. When I stepped into the room for the weekly Tuesday night open mic, I knew everything would be okay. After only four days on the island, I had found the poets!
Reflecting on my time here, I have written a poem, titled “Moving to Puerto Rico.” Though I could write on and on in prose about my experiences, this poem does a better job of expressing my time in Puerto Rico.
Moving to Puerto Rico
You will inhale this land of cologne sweetly,
but exhale it like the hay barn in August.
The heat hits you before homesickness does,
hits you like a crowbar to a windshield:
you shatter before you sweat.
And the tropical sun widens her electric smile
when she sees your pale, American skin.
The mosquitoes love your skin also--
your exotic taste drives them to ignore the citronella,
bite through the sunscreen and Off coating your body.
Be patient.
After you get through this hazing,
learn to breathe the new sky, to crave the clouds
almost as much as the white flesh of the guanabana
from your neighbor’s backyard tree.
Submerse those 43 bug bites in the ocean, a natural cure.
The waves will say, “Tranquilo,” and heal you.
Plant marigolds, rosemary, and catnip,
the plants mosquitoes hate the most.
Then, begin to say, “Buenos dias,” to everyone:
the guy with handcuffs who cells CDs at the track
who claps and cheers for your every lap;
the woman at the Dominican restaurant
who makes your batidas with extra cinnamon;
the coqui frogs who sing you to sleep every night;
the poets who meet weekly to share new work;
the baby lagartijo who crawled into your house
and ate the ants you attracted with guanabana for him.
They will stare at you a little longer because your eyes are blue,
but it’s a compliment.
Since you’re American, people will talk to you about football,
but as soon as the creepy guy waiting at the health insurance office
asks you if you play in a lingerie league,
be sure walk away, muy rapido.
When you pass the old couple perched on the front porch,
use your best Spanish, and your best smile.
In fact, anytime you don’t understand,
use your best smile.
Remember that tastebuds do not judge by sight,
so eat the fried fish even though it still has its eyes.
You won’t regret it.
Learn to cook arroz con pollo with Puerto Rican spices
and how to fry sweet plantains until they are black,
better yet, learn to cook and shop for your groceries
in six-inch heels and extra perfume.
You’ll fit in better that way.
Take a shower at night, when the water is coolest.
Your stick-straight hair will fake like it’s going to curl,
but it won’t. So let it dry naturally.
A blow-dryer is unbearable here.
Drink your margaritas with extra salt
(for all the sweat you lost, especially if you blow-dry your hair)
and then drink the merengue with your hips.
When you are sitting at home by yourself,
trying to find something familiar in your new home,
watch repeat episodes of Seinfeld on TBS.
You’ll feel back in the states in no time.
Ignore the fact that you wear sneakers instead of heels,
cotton instead of silk,
bug spray instead of perfume,
and burnt skin instead of tanned.
Instead, focus on the water here, so clear
you can look down and count
all the bug bites on your feet.
Buenos dias from Puerto Rico! As most of you know, on July first I moved to San Juan, Puerto Rico, where I will soon begin a doctoral program in Caribbean literature. Though the cruise ship commercials portray island life as stress-free and easy, living in any new place can be both a difficult adjustment and a fun adventure.
My time here has been a rollercoaster, experiencing extreme happiness at times, and at others, stress and confusion. However, I made the decision to come here because I know that change and vulnerability encourage growth of the mind and spirit. I live for the good moments and weather the bad with this in mind.
I am a long way from home; yet, no matter how far a poet travels from home, she can always find a second home among her fellow writers. The Poets’ Passage, an artists’ nook beside Starbucks in Old San Juan, takes the prize for my favorite place here so far. When I stepped into the room for the weekly Tuesday night open mic, I knew everything would be okay. After only four days on the island, I had found the poets!
Reflecting on my time here, I have written a poem, titled “Moving to Puerto Rico.” Though I could write on and on in prose about my experiences, this poem does a better job of expressing my time in Puerto Rico.
Moving to Puerto Rico
You will inhale this land of cologne sweetly,
but exhale it like the hay barn in August.
The heat hits you before homesickness does,
hits you like a crowbar to a windshield:
you shatter before you sweat.
And the tropical sun widens her electric smile
when she sees your pale, American skin.
The mosquitoes love your skin also--
your exotic taste drives them to ignore the citronella,
bite through the sunscreen and Off coating your body.
Be patient.
After you get through this hazing,
learn to breathe the new sky, to crave the clouds
almost as much as the white flesh of the guanabana
from your neighbor’s backyard tree.
Submerse those 43 bug bites in the ocean, a natural cure.
The waves will say, “Tranquilo,” and heal you.
Plant marigolds, rosemary, and catnip,
the plants mosquitoes hate the most.
Then, begin to say, “Buenos dias,” to everyone:
the guy with handcuffs who cells CDs at the track
who claps and cheers for your every lap;
the woman at the Dominican restaurant
who makes your batidas with extra cinnamon;
the coqui frogs who sing you to sleep every night;
the poets who meet weekly to share new work;
the baby lagartijo who crawled into your house
and ate the ants you attracted with guanabana for him.
They will stare at you a little longer because your eyes are blue,
but it’s a compliment.
Since you’re American, people will talk to you about football,
but as soon as the creepy guy waiting at the health insurance office
asks you if you play in a lingerie league,
be sure walk away, muy rapido.
When you pass the old couple perched on the front porch,
use your best Spanish, and your best smile.
In fact, anytime you don’t understand,
use your best smile.
Remember that tastebuds do not judge by sight,
so eat the fried fish even though it still has its eyes.
You won’t regret it.
Learn to cook arroz con pollo with Puerto Rican spices
and how to fry sweet plantains until they are black,
better yet, learn to cook and shop for your groceries
in six-inch heels and extra perfume.
You’ll fit in better that way.
Take a shower at night, when the water is coolest.
Your stick-straight hair will fake like it’s going to curl,
but it won’t. So let it dry naturally.
A blow-dryer is unbearable here.
Drink your margaritas with extra salt
(for all the sweat you lost, especially if you blow-dry your hair)
and then drink the merengue with your hips.
When you are sitting at home by yourself,
trying to find something familiar in your new home,
watch repeat episodes of Seinfeld on TBS.
You’ll feel back in the states in no time.
Ignore the fact that you wear sneakers instead of heels,
cotton instead of silk,
bug spray instead of perfume,
and burnt skin instead of tanned.
Instead, focus on the water here, so clear
you can look down and count
all the bug bites on your feet.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
July Column
First published in The Evening Sun on July 25, 2010:
A few weeks ago, Hanover lost one of its most influential leaders. Mayor Maggie Hormel made Hanover a better place in many ways. Today, I’d like to emphasize her magnanimous contribution to the arts, most of all to Hanover’s poetry community. In fact, without Mayor Hormel, this column would not exist because the poet laureate position would not exist.
Hanover installed its first Poet Laureate, Anna Manahan Bowman, on May 8, 2002. Mayor Hormel created this position. Reflecting on her experience, Bowman said, “Mayor Maggie was an advocate for Hanover's history and culture. When approached with the prospect of naming a poet laureate to serve the community, she gained the support of Borough Council and drafted a resolution to create the position, now an on-going tradition—the first borough in the state to do so.”
Bowman holds fond memories of her tenure working with Mayor Hormel. She also remembers the small moments she shared with her: “Another memory I cherish is the time we assembled on Carlisle Street to ride together in a parade and she instructed me on how to wave--never from the wrist, always from the elbow. ‘Then,’ she said, ‘your hand doesn’t get tired.’”
Furthermore, Bowman remembers, “I learned the depth of her caring and sensitivity when she asked me to write a poem for the Memorial Day Service at Mount Olivet Cemetery. A few days before the event, I decided to read my Hanover poem to her in her office. Glancing up midway through my reading, I saw the tears of compassion for our soldiers in her eyes.”
Mayor Hormel, moved by poetry, loved the art, but also intended to make poetry a more influential part of our community. In a sense, she planted the seeds that continue to bloom. With this metaphor, Bowman pays tribute to Mayor Hormel’s work in her poem “Mayor.”
Mayor
You were planting a flower
when we met:
coleus—pale green tipping
to purple
in the borough lobby,
your fuchsia blazer blending
as though spring had sent
a welcome sign.
“You must be Anna,” you said.
And from there we talked of
growing things
like the town you carry with you,
even to Arizona.
Constant are your hands;
plucking weeds,
planting laureates.
I think of you now:
sitting in your brown leather chair,
your head bending over your desk,
eyes furrowing papers, pencil
inclined;
tending garden.
As Mayor Hormel’s plants continued to bloom in our community, she also inspired Hanover’s second Poet Laureate, Dana Larkin Sauers, to preserve her legacy in verse:
In Praise of Our Mayor
Costumed children
and small animals too
ride in Time’s parade,
find comfort knowing
broad shoulders, visionary eyes,
these encircling arms—
our Mayor Maggie’s might.
She rises to greatness
by being tender, genuine,
so small that others barely
notice, except for the Beauty.
She testifies
through freshly painted frontages
flower-bedecked corners,
and cultivates
order and law
by lingering long enough
to keep a promise.
She takes in all
by giving all away,
gives voice and verse to the many
secures a model to preside
over company she serves:
Wisdom, Strength, Pride.
Hanover’s delight.
Both of these poems speak to the beautiful grace with which Mayor Hormel led our community. Sauers writes, “She takes in all / by giving all away.” These lines capture not only her work, but also her character in general.
Though I did not have the opportunity to work directly with Mayor Hormel, I had the chance to meet her at the Poets Laureate reading at the Eichelberger Performing Arts Center in April. She graciously took my hands and expressed her pleasure in seeing the progress of poetry in our community. She said this humbly, not acknowledging that the blooming came from seeds she had sown. Today I want to acknowledge Mayor Hormel’s influence, and the wonderful poetry community grown out of her passionate leadership.
“She will be sadly missed,” said Anna Manahan Bowman, “but what she began will continue. Her vision and goals for Hanover remain; her influence remains.”
A few weeks ago, Hanover lost one of its most influential leaders. Mayor Maggie Hormel made Hanover a better place in many ways. Today, I’d like to emphasize her magnanimous contribution to the arts, most of all to Hanover’s poetry community. In fact, without Mayor Hormel, this column would not exist because the poet laureate position would not exist.
Hanover installed its first Poet Laureate, Anna Manahan Bowman, on May 8, 2002. Mayor Hormel created this position. Reflecting on her experience, Bowman said, “Mayor Maggie was an advocate for Hanover's history and culture. When approached with the prospect of naming a poet laureate to serve the community, she gained the support of Borough Council and drafted a resolution to create the position, now an on-going tradition—the first borough in the state to do so.”
Bowman holds fond memories of her tenure working with Mayor Hormel. She also remembers the small moments she shared with her: “Another memory I cherish is the time we assembled on Carlisle Street to ride together in a parade and she instructed me on how to wave--never from the wrist, always from the elbow. ‘Then,’ she said, ‘your hand doesn’t get tired.’”
Furthermore, Bowman remembers, “I learned the depth of her caring and sensitivity when she asked me to write a poem for the Memorial Day Service at Mount Olivet Cemetery. A few days before the event, I decided to read my Hanover poem to her in her office. Glancing up midway through my reading, I saw the tears of compassion for our soldiers in her eyes.”
Mayor Hormel, moved by poetry, loved the art, but also intended to make poetry a more influential part of our community. In a sense, she planted the seeds that continue to bloom. With this metaphor, Bowman pays tribute to Mayor Hormel’s work in her poem “Mayor.”
Mayor
You were planting a flower
when we met:
coleus—pale green tipping
to purple
in the borough lobby,
your fuchsia blazer blending
as though spring had sent
a welcome sign.
“You must be Anna,” you said.
And from there we talked of
growing things
like the town you carry with you,
even to Arizona.
Constant are your hands;
plucking weeds,
planting laureates.
I think of you now:
sitting in your brown leather chair,
your head bending over your desk,
eyes furrowing papers, pencil
inclined;
tending garden.
As Mayor Hormel’s plants continued to bloom in our community, she also inspired Hanover’s second Poet Laureate, Dana Larkin Sauers, to preserve her legacy in verse:
In Praise of Our Mayor
Costumed children
and small animals too
ride in Time’s parade,
find comfort knowing
broad shoulders, visionary eyes,
these encircling arms—
our Mayor Maggie’s might.
She rises to greatness
by being tender, genuine,
so small that others barely
notice, except for the Beauty.
She testifies
through freshly painted frontages
flower-bedecked corners,
and cultivates
order and law
by lingering long enough
to keep a promise.
She takes in all
by giving all away,
gives voice and verse to the many
secures a model to preside
over company she serves:
Wisdom, Strength, Pride.
Hanover’s delight.
Both of these poems speak to the beautiful grace with which Mayor Hormel led our community. Sauers writes, “She takes in all / by giving all away.” These lines capture not only her work, but also her character in general.
Though I did not have the opportunity to work directly with Mayor Hormel, I had the chance to meet her at the Poets Laureate reading at the Eichelberger Performing Arts Center in April. She graciously took my hands and expressed her pleasure in seeing the progress of poetry in our community. She said this humbly, not acknowledging that the blooming came from seeds she had sown. Today I want to acknowledge Mayor Hormel’s influence, and the wonderful poetry community grown out of her passionate leadership.
“She will be sadly missed,” said Anna Manahan Bowman, “but what she began will continue. Her vision and goals for Hanover remain; her influence remains.”
Friday, July 16, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Hanover Area Poetry Critique
If you are a writer or are interested in reading/writing, please join the Hanover Poets for their monthly critique. They meet the 3rd Monday of each month at 7:30 p.m. at the Giant Market Cafe on Eisenhower Drive. Come with some copies of a poem or just bring yourself. All are welcome! Led by former Poet Laureate, Anna Manahan Bowman, the group is always a lot of fun and a great learning experience.
Next meeting: Monday, July 19 at 7:30 p.m.
Next meeting: Monday, July 19 at 7:30 p.m.
Monday, June 28, 2010
June Column
First published in The Evening Sun on Sunday, June 27, 2010:
“Good fences make good neighbors.” Robert Frost ended his famous poem, “The Mending Wall,” with that line. Though I have listened to many professors and poets argue about Frost’s sentiment in “The Mending Wall,” one thing is clear: Frost intends to highlight the tensions present on either side of any fence.
Fences always bring tension with them because just as fences keep things in, they also keep things out. One cannot deny the tension in this famous dialectic. If you need an illustration, just drive down the road, and look at all the gardens in the area with fences around them. In this case, the goal is not to keep the plants in, but to keep the rabbits and groundhogs out. Hence, the fence is a concrete representation of the tension between the animals and the farmer’s dinner, or the predator and the prey.
Another example of the tension fences create is the cliché “the grass is always greener on the other side.” Without the fence, sides would not exist, and everyone would be able to reach the better grass easily, relieving that tension.
When people build fences, they often have a goal in mind, in some cases containment. For instance, sometimes people with dogs will build a fence around the yard so the dog can go outside and run, but not run away. However, even though the fence can keep the dogs inside, it cannot always keep everything out. Local poet Gary Ciocco explores the tension his fence creates between his fenced-in beagles and the squirrels that he cannot contain in his poem “Good Fences Make Fine Beasts”:
Good Fences Make Fine Beasts
It’s a nice gesture
on a Sunday morning
to warn the squirrels
even though
they seem able to avoid
the beagles naturally.
The wild thrill of the hunt
in one of the least-contoured backyards
of an anal-retentive development.
I vow to cut the grass less
and brush the dogs more
as my contribution
to civility.
Either the artist or
the animal in me
makes me want
to frame this game.
And I have no retort
when a squirrel
knocks my Coke
off the fence post
in retaliation.
He’s just a squirrel
after all, and he and I
are ecstatic to be alive,
kicking and gesturing
in the mainly tame
weekend breeze.
In this poem, the fence takes on a bit of a different role than in Frost’s poem. It is meant to contain the beagles; yet, fences like his cannot keep animals like squirrels out. So, this fence creates a bias. It allows the squirrels to cross back and forth, but if the dog comes after them, the fence allows them to escape. About the poem, Ciocco said, “I relish my backyard being a frame for wildness and for all these tensions—including the ironic fact that I required a fence in order to make it wilder.”
When I asked Ciocco about being compelled to save the squirrels, he said, “The stories are real. I have 2 beagles, and in 2007 had a fence put in. Squirrels are everywhere, and my dogs are relentless chasers of them, so I do sometimes try to tap the window hard or otherwise ‘warn the squirrels.’” As the dogs hunt the squirrels, he is torn between his loyalty to his pets and his reverence for the squirrels’ lives, creating yet another tension in his poem. He writes, “It’s a nice gesture / on a Sunday morning / to warn the squirrels.” Thus, when he feels the tension of the hunt, he feels compelled to save the squirrels from impending attacks.
After all this discussion of fences and the tensions they create, my challenge to you for this month is to create your own poem modeled after Frost’s and Ciocco’s. Write a poem in which a fence creates some form of tension for you, animals, plants, or whatever you wish, and post it on my blog: http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com.
Sometimes poems begin in the most practical moments. If you need some inspiration to get started, here is how Ciocco began writing his poem: “This poem actually was written last fall, right after I had a rain garden put in my back yard. My landscapers, Nickie and Ed James, actually told me the story of the squirrel knocking their Coke off a fence post while they were working in my yard, and I appropriated it to myself for concise poetic movement.”
“Good fences make good neighbors.” Robert Frost ended his famous poem, “The Mending Wall,” with that line. Though I have listened to many professors and poets argue about Frost’s sentiment in “The Mending Wall,” one thing is clear: Frost intends to highlight the tensions present on either side of any fence.
Fences always bring tension with them because just as fences keep things in, they also keep things out. One cannot deny the tension in this famous dialectic. If you need an illustration, just drive down the road, and look at all the gardens in the area with fences around them. In this case, the goal is not to keep the plants in, but to keep the rabbits and groundhogs out. Hence, the fence is a concrete representation of the tension between the animals and the farmer’s dinner, or the predator and the prey.
Another example of the tension fences create is the cliché “the grass is always greener on the other side.” Without the fence, sides would not exist, and everyone would be able to reach the better grass easily, relieving that tension.
When people build fences, they often have a goal in mind, in some cases containment. For instance, sometimes people with dogs will build a fence around the yard so the dog can go outside and run, but not run away. However, even though the fence can keep the dogs inside, it cannot always keep everything out. Local poet Gary Ciocco explores the tension his fence creates between his fenced-in beagles and the squirrels that he cannot contain in his poem “Good Fences Make Fine Beasts”:
Good Fences Make Fine Beasts
It’s a nice gesture
on a Sunday morning
to warn the squirrels
even though
they seem able to avoid
the beagles naturally.
The wild thrill of the hunt
in one of the least-contoured backyards
of an anal-retentive development.
I vow to cut the grass less
and brush the dogs more
as my contribution
to civility.
Either the artist or
the animal in me
makes me want
to frame this game.
And I have no retort
when a squirrel
knocks my Coke
off the fence post
in retaliation.
He’s just a squirrel
after all, and he and I
are ecstatic to be alive,
kicking and gesturing
in the mainly tame
weekend breeze.
In this poem, the fence takes on a bit of a different role than in Frost’s poem. It is meant to contain the beagles; yet, fences like his cannot keep animals like squirrels out. So, this fence creates a bias. It allows the squirrels to cross back and forth, but if the dog comes after them, the fence allows them to escape. About the poem, Ciocco said, “I relish my backyard being a frame for wildness and for all these tensions—including the ironic fact that I required a fence in order to make it wilder.”
When I asked Ciocco about being compelled to save the squirrels, he said, “The stories are real. I have 2 beagles, and in 2007 had a fence put in. Squirrels are everywhere, and my dogs are relentless chasers of them, so I do sometimes try to tap the window hard or otherwise ‘warn the squirrels.’” As the dogs hunt the squirrels, he is torn between his loyalty to his pets and his reverence for the squirrels’ lives, creating yet another tension in his poem. He writes, “It’s a nice gesture / on a Sunday morning / to warn the squirrels.” Thus, when he feels the tension of the hunt, he feels compelled to save the squirrels from impending attacks.
After all this discussion of fences and the tensions they create, my challenge to you for this month is to create your own poem modeled after Frost’s and Ciocco’s. Write a poem in which a fence creates some form of tension for you, animals, plants, or whatever you wish, and post it on my blog: http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com.
Sometimes poems begin in the most practical moments. If you need some inspiration to get started, here is how Ciocco began writing his poem: “This poem actually was written last fall, right after I had a rain garden put in my back yard. My landscapers, Nickie and Ed James, actually told me the story of the squirrel knocking their Coke off a fence post while they were working in my yard, and I appropriated it to myself for concise poetic movement.”
Sunday, June 6, 2010
May Column
Published in the Evening Sun the last Sunday of May:
People define poetry in many different ways. For example, William Wordsworth once defined it as “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” In a similar vein, Robert Frost wrote, “Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words." However, in its simplest form, I define poetry as a translation. After all, to get an emotion to the page, you must first put it into words. Though we usually associate the word “translation” with different languages, it can take on many different connotations.
During my last week of teaching writing at Columbia College Chicago, I had the opportunity to witness translation first-hand, as my students presented their final projects. Their assignment was to reflect on the research paper they spent all semester writing and to then translate their words and ideas into another art form.
For instance, one student, who had written a paper on heroin abuse, made a short film about the typical day for an addict. Another student created a sculpture to symbolize the main epiphany he had come to while writing a paper about the movie “Forrest Gump.” Yet another student, who had written an essay on the role of nature and nurture in religion, composed a song on her guitar and sang it for the class. While this project gave my art students a chance to be creative and do what they love, it also taught them a lesson about translation. Sometimes, to really understand something, we must translate it into a different form, one we are more familiar with.
This idea about understanding brings me to poetry and the poet’s comprehension of the world. Just as an architect can design a building to emphasize eco-friendliness, the poet can write a poem about the same subject. Neither the building nor the poem are the idea itself; however, they both are the idea translated into another form.
Essentially, the process of writing involves merely translation. Poets see something and translate it into words, while others might see something and translate it into a photograph or into music. In fact, in order to teach students about the poetry term “image,” I first teach them translation. To begin, we read a short poem together as a group, and I ask the students to draw it. As the students draw the poem, they actively translate it from words to images. Then, I reverse the process. I show them an image and have them write down words to describe it. This reflexive process shows that ideas can be understood in many ways, words being one of them.
Just as writing poetry aims to translate some aspect of the world, whether it is an idea, a memory, or an image, reading poetry also engages the process of translation. Have you ever read something and had to look up a word you didn’t know? In this instance, you practiced translation. After looking up the word, you replaced it with the word you already understood. Thus, you translated the word into a language that your sensibility recognized, that it could associate with other ideas and memories.
Yet, sometimes poems are difficult to understand, especially poems written in a language or context that seem foreign to us. Thus, translating the poem into our own sensibility, language, and context helps us better understand the general meaning. Take, for instance, “The Solitary Reaper,” by William Wordsworth. Here is the first stanza:
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
Words such as “Yon” and “Highland Lass” seem foreign, and though we can get an idea of the time period and what is happening, let’s see what happens if we change the context of the poem and make it more contemporary.
Here is my translation of Wordsworth’s first stanza:
Look at her, alone in the garden,
That solitary farmwife!
Picking beans and humming to herself;
Stop the car, or keep driving!
Alone she nips and jars the crop,
And hums a sad song;
Listen! The rows of corn and tomatoes
Overflow with the sound.
When I thought about a modern workingwoman to replace the “Highland Lass,” I immediately thought of a farmwife working in the garden because I grew up on a farm. Thus, my translation reflects my sensibility.
However, I’m sure each of you might translate the “Highland Lass” in a different way. My challenge to you for this month is to translate this stanza into your own idea of whom the “Highland Lass” represents in our contemporary world. What would the stanza look like if it better reflected your sensibility and experience? Please feel free to post your ideas on my blog: http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com.
People define poetry in many different ways. For example, William Wordsworth once defined it as “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” In a similar vein, Robert Frost wrote, “Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words." However, in its simplest form, I define poetry as a translation. After all, to get an emotion to the page, you must first put it into words. Though we usually associate the word “translation” with different languages, it can take on many different connotations.
During my last week of teaching writing at Columbia College Chicago, I had the opportunity to witness translation first-hand, as my students presented their final projects. Their assignment was to reflect on the research paper they spent all semester writing and to then translate their words and ideas into another art form.
For instance, one student, who had written a paper on heroin abuse, made a short film about the typical day for an addict. Another student created a sculpture to symbolize the main epiphany he had come to while writing a paper about the movie “Forrest Gump.” Yet another student, who had written an essay on the role of nature and nurture in religion, composed a song on her guitar and sang it for the class. While this project gave my art students a chance to be creative and do what they love, it also taught them a lesson about translation. Sometimes, to really understand something, we must translate it into a different form, one we are more familiar with.
This idea about understanding brings me to poetry and the poet’s comprehension of the world. Just as an architect can design a building to emphasize eco-friendliness, the poet can write a poem about the same subject. Neither the building nor the poem are the idea itself; however, they both are the idea translated into another form.
Essentially, the process of writing involves merely translation. Poets see something and translate it into words, while others might see something and translate it into a photograph or into music. In fact, in order to teach students about the poetry term “image,” I first teach them translation. To begin, we read a short poem together as a group, and I ask the students to draw it. As the students draw the poem, they actively translate it from words to images. Then, I reverse the process. I show them an image and have them write down words to describe it. This reflexive process shows that ideas can be understood in many ways, words being one of them.
Just as writing poetry aims to translate some aspect of the world, whether it is an idea, a memory, or an image, reading poetry also engages the process of translation. Have you ever read something and had to look up a word you didn’t know? In this instance, you practiced translation. After looking up the word, you replaced it with the word you already understood. Thus, you translated the word into a language that your sensibility recognized, that it could associate with other ideas and memories.
Yet, sometimes poems are difficult to understand, especially poems written in a language or context that seem foreign to us. Thus, translating the poem into our own sensibility, language, and context helps us better understand the general meaning. Take, for instance, “The Solitary Reaper,” by William Wordsworth. Here is the first stanza:
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
Words such as “Yon” and “Highland Lass” seem foreign, and though we can get an idea of the time period and what is happening, let’s see what happens if we change the context of the poem and make it more contemporary.
Here is my translation of Wordsworth’s first stanza:
Look at her, alone in the garden,
That solitary farmwife!
Picking beans and humming to herself;
Stop the car, or keep driving!
Alone she nips and jars the crop,
And hums a sad song;
Listen! The rows of corn and tomatoes
Overflow with the sound.
When I thought about a modern workingwoman to replace the “Highland Lass,” I immediately thought of a farmwife working in the garden because I grew up on a farm. Thus, my translation reflects my sensibility.
However, I’m sure each of you might translate the “Highland Lass” in a different way. My challenge to you for this month is to translate this stanza into your own idea of whom the “Highland Lass” represents in our contemporary world. What would the stanza look like if it better reflected your sensibility and experience? Please feel free to post your ideas on my blog: http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Heather Hallman wins SW poetry contest
In honor National Poetry Month, South Western High School also had a poetry contest which I judged as Poet Laureate. I'm pleased to announce the winner is Heather Hallman. Her poem, "Winter Morning," won the contest.
Winter Morning
Winds like deep, slow breaths,
Leaves askew on the surface,
White blanket rests,
No dreams in this fitful slumber,
A door creaks open,
The blanket shifts,
The sun is reavealed,
Nature's yawn.
Winter Morning
Winds like deep, slow breaths,
Leaves askew on the surface,
White blanket rests,
No dreams in this fitful slumber,
A door creaks open,
The blanket shifts,
The sun is reavealed,
Nature's yawn.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
April Column
First appeared in The Evening Sun on Sunday, April 25, 2010
Poetry always brings people together in unexpected ways. When I began my tenure as Poet Laureate, I never thought I would make connections with people halfway around the world. So, when I received an email from Mark Anthony L. Daposala, from the Phillippines, telling me my Hanover Poet Laureate blog had reached an international audience, it shocked me. I never thought my blog would reach an audience beyond Hanover, PA, nonetheless beyond the United States and the Western Hemisphere!
After a brief correspondence with Daposala, he entered my poetry contest. After much deliberation, we have chosen his poem, “Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose,” as the winner in the adult category.
Daposala is a young writer, beginning his career as a burgeoning poet. He is from Cagayan de Oro City, Philippines. After graduating with a Bachelor's Degree in English Language and Literature Studies from Xavier University, he now works as a Web Content Writer. Of poetry and its importance, Daposala writes, “To entangle the cluttering strings of language, and somehow weave a shape out of it is enough to make [me] smile for the day.”
When he sent me his poems, he included the following note: “Paraphrasing from Dickinson, I hope these three poems are alive.” To me, his work certainly comes “alive” on the page. Even more so, his poetry lives with an urgency rooted in the real. I admire his instinct, as a writer, to keep his content concise. He uses a few specific details and does not add filler information to make the scene easier to digest or prettier than the reality. Instead, he chooses the right words to paint something realistic, and thus, more powerful. Here is his winning poem, “Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose.”
Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose
All I thought of that night
was how we ended up
in that jam-packed bolgia.
Still your heart lingered
at the sound of cymbals
crashing
like beer bottles
shattering
on concrete.
You sat
observing the scene
behind your horn-rimmed glasses
as the guitar’s distorted notes
flew like flies dissipated
in the tobacco fog
fuming from the mouths of fiends
in vintage shirts and tattered jeans
bought fresh from the Ukay-Ukay .
They raised their pitchfork fingers
in the name of sex, drugs and rock n’ roll.
You were barely 16
sipping your can of coke with a straw.
and exclaimed your view of anarchy,
“Can you see it now?
Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose.”
I fell silent.
All I saw was you.
Ukay-Ukay / ÊŠkaɪ ÊŠkaɪ/: a.) literally means “To Dig.”
b.) The word also refers to the contemporary stores in the Philippines that sell bulks of secondhand goods like clothing. They are also sold in cheap and negotiable prices, making it popular to the frugal masses of the Philippines.
In his biography, Daposala included: “I’m an advocate of Carpe Diem.” I think this poem illustrates that mindset well. I read the poem as a nod to heightened awareness and consciousness. Isn’t that the point of seizing the day, being suddenly aware of everything happening around you and making something of it?
The poem opens with “chaos.” The speaker finds himself in the middle of people, music, and violence, implied by his metaphor: “cymbals / crashing / like beer bottles / shattering / on concrete.” After he sets up the scene, he goes on to describe the people there with his best demonic imagery. My point is that when someone finds himself in the middle of chaos, it usually looks and sounds more like a blur. How often does chaos involve precise imagery, the recollection that “the guitar’s distorted notes / flew like flies dissipated / in the tobacco fog”? These specific images and remembrances bring me back to the idea of carpe diem, of heightened awareness. Though the speaker faces this moment of chaos, he remains conscious of every detail around him.
On top of this, how often does chaos involve a moment of epiphany? Yes, sometimes it happens afterwards, but not usually right in the midst of it. In the middle of this crazy moment, his friend explains a personal view on “anarchy”: “‘Can you see it now? / Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose.’” These lines bring the reader back, once again, to that idea of vision, of seeing, of consciousness. Can the speaker “see” this single symbol of beauty rising out of the riotous atmosphere?
In the final two lines of the poem, after being asked this question, the speaker has his epiphany. He begins, “I fell silent.” I read this as epiphany because all of a sudden the poem becomes still, silent for the first time. We experience a quiet moment with just the speaker, and this change in volume signals a change in awareness to me.
Next, the poem ends with, “All I saw was you.” Though some may read the “you” immediately as a love interest, in my reading of the poem, “you” becomes more than that. “You” transcends the person who introduced the speaker to the new idea, and becomes the idea itself. “You” is a change in awareness, a new vision of the world. Though the reader is not privy to the specifics, he or she can still glean the main point: epiphanies come in unexpected times and unexpected places if you live consciously. So, seize the day!
Poetry always brings people together in unexpected ways. When I began my tenure as Poet Laureate, I never thought I would make connections with people halfway around the world. So, when I received an email from Mark Anthony L. Daposala, from the Phillippines, telling me my Hanover Poet Laureate blog had reached an international audience, it shocked me. I never thought my blog would reach an audience beyond Hanover, PA, nonetheless beyond the United States and the Western Hemisphere!
After a brief correspondence with Daposala, he entered my poetry contest. After much deliberation, we have chosen his poem, “Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose,” as the winner in the adult category.
Daposala is a young writer, beginning his career as a burgeoning poet. He is from Cagayan de Oro City, Philippines. After graduating with a Bachelor's Degree in English Language and Literature Studies from Xavier University, he now works as a Web Content Writer. Of poetry and its importance, Daposala writes, “To entangle the cluttering strings of language, and somehow weave a shape out of it is enough to make [me] smile for the day.”
When he sent me his poems, he included the following note: “Paraphrasing from Dickinson, I hope these three poems are alive.” To me, his work certainly comes “alive” on the page. Even more so, his poetry lives with an urgency rooted in the real. I admire his instinct, as a writer, to keep his content concise. He uses a few specific details and does not add filler information to make the scene easier to digest or prettier than the reality. Instead, he chooses the right words to paint something realistic, and thus, more powerful. Here is his winning poem, “Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose.”
Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose
All I thought of that night
was how we ended up
in that jam-packed bolgia.
Still your heart lingered
at the sound of cymbals
crashing
like beer bottles
shattering
on concrete.
You sat
observing the scene
behind your horn-rimmed glasses
as the guitar’s distorted notes
flew like flies dissipated
in the tobacco fog
fuming from the mouths of fiends
in vintage shirts and tattered jeans
bought fresh from the Ukay-Ukay .
They raised their pitchfork fingers
in the name of sex, drugs and rock n’ roll.
You were barely 16
sipping your can of coke with a straw.
and exclaimed your view of anarchy,
“Can you see it now?
Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose.”
I fell silent.
All I saw was you.
Ukay-Ukay / ÊŠkaɪ ÊŠkaɪ/: a.) literally means “To Dig.”
b.) The word also refers to the contemporary stores in the Philippines that sell bulks of secondhand goods like clothing. They are also sold in cheap and negotiable prices, making it popular to the frugal masses of the Philippines.
In his biography, Daposala included: “I’m an advocate of Carpe Diem.” I think this poem illustrates that mindset well. I read the poem as a nod to heightened awareness and consciousness. Isn’t that the point of seizing the day, being suddenly aware of everything happening around you and making something of it?
The poem opens with “chaos.” The speaker finds himself in the middle of people, music, and violence, implied by his metaphor: “cymbals / crashing / like beer bottles / shattering / on concrete.” After he sets up the scene, he goes on to describe the people there with his best demonic imagery. My point is that when someone finds himself in the middle of chaos, it usually looks and sounds more like a blur. How often does chaos involve precise imagery, the recollection that “the guitar’s distorted notes / flew like flies dissipated / in the tobacco fog”? These specific images and remembrances bring me back to the idea of carpe diem, of heightened awareness. Though the speaker faces this moment of chaos, he remains conscious of every detail around him.
On top of this, how often does chaos involve a moment of epiphany? Yes, sometimes it happens afterwards, but not usually right in the midst of it. In the middle of this crazy moment, his friend explains a personal view on “anarchy”: “‘Can you see it now? / Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose.’” These lines bring the reader back, once again, to that idea of vision, of seeing, of consciousness. Can the speaker “see” this single symbol of beauty rising out of the riotous atmosphere?
In the final two lines of the poem, after being asked this question, the speaker has his epiphany. He begins, “I fell silent.” I read this as epiphany because all of a sudden the poem becomes still, silent for the first time. We experience a quiet moment with just the speaker, and this change in volume signals a change in awareness to me.
Next, the poem ends with, “All I saw was you.” Though some may read the “you” immediately as a love interest, in my reading of the poem, “you” becomes more than that. “You” transcends the person who introduced the speaker to the new idea, and becomes the idea itself. “You” is a change in awareness, a new vision of the world. Though the reader is not privy to the specifics, he or she can still glean the main point: epiphanies come in unexpected times and unexpected places if you live consciously. So, seize the day!
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Dana Larkin Sauers' Book Release at Ragged Edge
Dana Larkin Sauers recently released her book, My Letter to the World. Her release reading/party took place at Ragged Edge in Gettysburg.
Melissa Carl Reads at Zu Coffee
Local poet, Melissa Carl, reads at Zu Coffee. Melissa is one of my favorite contemporary poets!
Katy Giebenhain Reads at Reader's Cafe
Katy Giebenhain, a local poet, reads her work at Reader's Cafe in Hanover. Below is one of her poems.
The Commuter
At the police station
the officer nods, types with two fingers,
offers me a cigarette.
He blows smoke from the side of his mouth,
which has said before, and before
and before that
describe what happened next.
The chair, desk, swinging door
are entirely TV-cop-show,
as are the telephone list in its plastic sleeve,
the Tupperware lid in the in-tray,
my purse between us, gutted.
27 hours in the same clothes,
with unbrushed teeth and raccoon eyes,
robbed after an agency all-nighter,
I can sure as hell describe
what happens next.
There’s another client, project, work day,
pay check, missed train, decade.
I will leave the officer, shoulder my way
onto the crowded train.
White collar miner.
Bodies were not meant for this either.
What should happen next?
What doesn’t happen next?
(This poem first appeared in BOOMSLANG POETRY MAGAZINE.)
Contest Winners: Elementary Category
1st prize: Valerie Hicks
Losing My Head
I lost my cap
I lost my mom
I lost my map
And my brother, Tom
I can’t find my book
I can’t find my pen
I can’t find my hook
I can’t find my hen
I can’t find my trash
I can’t find Sam
I can’t find my cash
I can’t find my ham
I can’t find my marker
And I lost my hat
But, I’m really smarter
My mother said that!
Biography: I am 8 years old
I am a student at Hanover Street Elementary School.
I am new to poetry.
2nd prize: Jayson McCamant
The Dream
I had my dream
I lost my theme
I lost my junk
I lost my funk
My sister’s five
I have a chive
A beehive fell
On number five
I play tough
And my brother’s rough
When he eats pie
I say, “You’ll die!”
I lost a few
Good Mountain Dews
I made a tie
And I could not fly
Biography: Age 8, Grade 2
Teacher, Mrs. Connie Speck
Hanover Street Elementary School
3rd prize: Jesse Israilian
FROG FOG
There was a frog
That didn’t jog
Because of fog
One day he went
To find a log
In a small bog
Then came a dog
Then a big hog
Then came some fog
Finally the frog
He found a log
And scared the hog
Then scared the dog
And was no longer
Afraid of fog
4th prize: Jessica Morales
I’m a Mess
My name’s a mess
But at least
It’s not a chest
When I need to clean
I use a machine
And I just lean
I can’t find my cap
And I can’t find my snap
So I just tap
I can’t find my
pink in ink
with the little sink
If I don’t have a pig
I won’t wear a wig
Or do anything big
I always take
My extra cash
And put it in the trash
I keep my power
In the tower
Away from the flower
Biography: Age 8, Grade 2
Teacher, Mrs. Connie Speck
Hanover Street Elementary School
Losing My Head
I lost my cap
I lost my mom
I lost my map
And my brother, Tom
I can’t find my book
I can’t find my pen
I can’t find my hook
I can’t find my hen
I can’t find my trash
I can’t find Sam
I can’t find my cash
I can’t find my ham
I can’t find my marker
And I lost my hat
But, I’m really smarter
My mother said that!
Biography: I am 8 years old
I am a student at Hanover Street Elementary School.
I am new to poetry.
2nd prize: Jayson McCamant
The Dream
I had my dream
I lost my theme
I lost my junk
I lost my funk
My sister’s five
I have a chive
A beehive fell
On number five
I play tough
And my brother’s rough
When he eats pie
I say, “You’ll die!”
I lost a few
Good Mountain Dews
I made a tie
And I could not fly
Biography: Age 8, Grade 2
Teacher, Mrs. Connie Speck
Hanover Street Elementary School
3rd prize: Jesse Israilian
FROG FOG
There was a frog
That didn’t jog
Because of fog
One day he went
To find a log
In a small bog
Then came a dog
Then a big hog
Then came some fog
Finally the frog
He found a log
And scared the hog
Then scared the dog
And was no longer
Afraid of fog
4th prize: Jessica Morales
I’m a Mess
My name’s a mess
But at least
It’s not a chest
When I need to clean
I use a machine
And I just lean
I can’t find my cap
And I can’t find my snap
So I just tap
I can’t find my
pink in ink
with the little sink
If I don’t have a pig
I won’t wear a wig
Or do anything big
I always take
My extra cash
And put it in the trash
I keep my power
In the tower
Away from the flower
Biography: Age 8, Grade 2
Teacher, Mrs. Connie Speck
Hanover Street Elementary School
Contest Winners: High School Category
1st place: Joshua Cartwright
Hufnagle Park
The name was innocuous enough---Hufnagle Park
Like a Saturday morning children’s program
It was apt for a while; families would picnic together
Sun bounced off the steel beams, as if to invite climbing
And climb we would---until mom called for dinner
Perfect. Magic. Youth. But Time---
Time will always convict the innocent.
I visited Hufnagle Park today
Yes, children were still playing
Now amidst bands of refuse
The slapdash quagmire of a flooded creek
And needles
Doctors always assert
“No child can love a needle”
I’m not so sure anymore
I swear I saw the real-life Raggedy Ann
Shooting up behind the monkey bars
And those beams---they weren’t glowing today
At Hufnagle Park.
2nd place: Garin Greenholt
The Bus Stop
3rd place: Madison Hoff
Handshake
An endless, pointless rage against all-
a dirt infested,
artillery congested
excuse for money and rule.
With tedious hours and countless days-
mindless plugs,
meaningless hugs
set on repeat for all to watch.
Where light never shines until silence mocks-
bashing cries,
determined lies
between all borders of truth.
The Handshake at the end means Nothing.
Biographies:
Joshua Cartwright: I was born in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania and moved to Hanover when I was nine years old. I've always enjoyed athletics, especially golf and tennis. Writing didn't become a passion of mine until my sophomore year of high school, but I have been hooked ever since. Other interests I've developed are acting, films in general, and politics. I live with my mother, who is also passionate about writing, and my younger sister Rebekah. In the future, I hope to pursue a career writing screenplays.
Garin Greenholt: I am a senior at Hanover High school. I play drums and sing in a band called Psychedelic Bathtub. I have participated in track and field for four years. I love to read and write, for my senior project I wrote a short story, about 60 pages in length. I am a very funny person from what I am told, and I like to have a lot of fun.
Madison Hoff: I'm from Hanover, Pennsylvania, and I attend Hanover High School. Ever since I was four, my family has been racing pigeons (it's a sport), unknown by many but is interesting to have grown up with it. I've played the violin for the high school and I play the guitar (not well, might I add). I'm interested in subjects such as English, French, History, Music and certain sciences like Environmental. I play softball for the high school and have been playing the sport for the past six years. I plan to attend a four year college next year where I'm considering majoring in Anthropology.
Hufnagle Park
The name was innocuous enough---Hufnagle Park
Like a Saturday morning children’s program
It was apt for a while; families would picnic together
Sun bounced off the steel beams, as if to invite climbing
And climb we would---until mom called for dinner
Perfect. Magic. Youth. But Time---
Time will always convict the innocent.
I visited Hufnagle Park today
Yes, children were still playing
Now amidst bands of refuse
The slapdash quagmire of a flooded creek
And needles
Doctors always assert
“No child can love a needle”
I’m not so sure anymore
I swear I saw the real-life Raggedy Ann
Shooting up behind the monkey bars
And those beams---they weren’t glowing today
At Hufnagle Park.
2nd place: Garin Greenholt
The Bus Stop
Shivering, my legs shook uneasy
While the Wind Whirled
To the East, the Sun slowly Rose
And so did the World
People came from every which way
Filling the seats beside me
No, no I was not alone that morning
The Cold Cracked Bench was not empty
The only noise I could hear
Was the Shrill of that Shaking Stop Sign
And the only feelings I felt
Were locked in my mind
I see these people everyday
And every morning it’s the same
The Newspapers Shake, and the Coffee Spills,
But no one knows my Name
It’s a Normal thing, this Bench and I
We’re a reoccurring thing that just happens…
The Faces may change, but it doesn’t Matter
I’m still Here, and I’m still Laughing
3rd place: Madison Hoff
Handshake
An endless, pointless rage against all-
a dirt infested,
artillery congested
excuse for money and rule.
With tedious hours and countless days-
mindless plugs,
meaningless hugs
set on repeat for all to watch.
Where light never shines until silence mocks-
bashing cries,
determined lies
between all borders of truth.
The Handshake at the end means Nothing.
Biographies:
Joshua Cartwright: I was born in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania and moved to Hanover when I was nine years old. I've always enjoyed athletics, especially golf and tennis. Writing didn't become a passion of mine until my sophomore year of high school, but I have been hooked ever since. Other interests I've developed are acting, films in general, and politics. I live with my mother, who is also passionate about writing, and my younger sister Rebekah. In the future, I hope to pursue a career writing screenplays.
Garin Greenholt: I am a senior at Hanover High school. I play drums and sing in a band called Psychedelic Bathtub. I have participated in track and field for four years. I love to read and write, for my senior project I wrote a short story, about 60 pages in length. I am a very funny person from what I am told, and I like to have a lot of fun.
Madison Hoff: I'm from Hanover, Pennsylvania, and I attend Hanover High School. Ever since I was four, my family has been racing pigeons (it's a sport), unknown by many but is interesting to have grown up with it. I've played the violin for the high school and I play the guitar (not well, might I add). I'm interested in subjects such as English, French, History, Music and certain sciences like Environmental. I play softball for the high school and have been playing the sport for the past six years. I plan to attend a four year college next year where I'm considering majoring in Anthropology.
Contest Winners: Adult Category
Adult Category
1st prize: Mark Daposala
Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose
All I thought of that night
was how we ended up
in that jam-packed bolgia.
Still your heart lingered
at the sound of cymbals
crashing
like beer bottles
shattering
on concrete.
You sat
observing the scene
behind your horn-rimmed glasses
as the guitar’s distorted notes
flew like flies dissipated
in the tobacco fog
fuming from the mouths of fiends
in vintage shirts and tattered jeans
bought fresh from the Ukay-Ukay .
They raised their pitchfork fingers
in the name of sex, drugs and rock n’ roll.
You were barely 16
sipping your can of coke with a straw.
and exclaimed your view of anarchy,
“Can you see it now?
Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose.”
I fell silent.
All I saw was you.
2nd prize: Melissa Carl
The Moment
I was all eyes and ponytails
when I asked my mother
why I could not have
the dusty teddy bear
on her dresser
and learned
I had almost had
a brother to go with it.
3rd prize: Regina M. Klunk
Biographies:
Mark Anthony Daposala: I’m Mark Anthony Daposala from Cagayan de Oro City, Philippines. I’m the youngest of five. I got my Bachelor's Degree in English Language and Literature Studies at Xavier University. I'm currently employed as a Web Content Writer. My goals are to work abroad so I can provide myself a stable life as well as my family in times of financial crisis. I also want to advance further in the craft of writing. Aside from that, I’m an advocate of Carpe Diem. My dreams are composed of the following: Writer, Visual artist, Businessman, Musician, Model, Trainer, Photographer and meeting my muse (wherever and whoever she is).
Melissa Carl: MELISSA CARL has been writing poetry for over fifteen years. She has published in various regional and national publications—both print and online---including the Fledgling Rag, the Hanover Evening Sun, the York Daily Record, Melusine, Amoskeag, The Journal of Southern New Hampshire University, Off the Coast Magazine. Her poems have won numerous awards, including two Pushcart nominations, three first place awards in the YorkArts WritersEye competition, the York Emporium anthology competition, Yesterday, I Will, and two Top Five Poem awards in the Writer’s Digest National Poetry Month Challenge. She teaches Honors World Cultures and Advanced Placement European history at the West York Area High School, where she also runs the gifted program.
Regina Klunk: I've been writing poems since I was in middle school. Of course I wrote about typical teenage stuff. I stopped for a little and then started up again in high school. But it didn't really hit me to right more mature poems, until my senior year. We learned a lot about Elizabethan sonnets, which is what my poems are now structured upon. It took me awhile to figure out what I wanted to write about. Finally , I came across this contest for a magazine located in Colorado. Shortly , after entering it for poetry and photography, I found out that this contest was worldwide. It kinda made me scared at first, but gave me more confidence in my writing, challenging myself to think bolder and open up my imagination. I have a poem that was in The Anthology of Poems by Young Americans, that was published when I was thirteen. I currently am finishing my last week of school at the Baltimore School of Massage-York Campus. A couple of weeks ago I composed a new sonnet based off of the touch of bodyworkers. My campus director was very delighted as well as my fellow classmates to see such appreciation for what we do.
1st prize: Mark Daposala
Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose
All I thought of that night
was how we ended up
in that jam-packed bolgia.
Still your heart lingered
at the sound of cymbals
crashing
like beer bottles
shattering
on concrete.
You sat
observing the scene
behind your horn-rimmed glasses
as the guitar’s distorted notes
flew like flies dissipated
in the tobacco fog
fuming from the mouths of fiends
in vintage shirts and tattered jeans
bought fresh from the Ukay-Ukay .
They raised their pitchfork fingers
in the name of sex, drugs and rock n’ roll.
You were barely 16
sipping your can of coke with a straw.
and exclaimed your view of anarchy,
“Can you see it now?
Amidst the chaos sprouts a rose.”
I fell silent.
All I saw was you.
2nd prize: Melissa Carl
The Moment
I was all eyes and ponytails
when I asked my mother
why I could not have
the dusty teddy bear
on her dresser
and learned
I had almost had
a brother to go with it.
3rd prize: Regina M. Klunk
Love Sonnet : I
Shall I compare our love to waterfalls
Like our love, the water is bold yet soft
The calm sound is a mesmerizing call
A feel of serenity is shown off
The water flows through the cracks and roughness
And accepts the guidance to find the way
Through journeys, it shares grace and gentleness
It becomes stronger and vibrant each day
Deep within, it’s so delicate and true
Every aspect is unique and graceful
Joyful, as the waters are divine blue
Feelings bring out the beauty of a soul
Minutes feel forever, even a few
Day by day, I pray, just to be with you
Biographies:
Mark Anthony Daposala: I’m Mark Anthony Daposala from Cagayan de Oro City, Philippines. I’m the youngest of five. I got my Bachelor's Degree in English Language and Literature Studies at Xavier University. I'm currently employed as a Web Content Writer. My goals are to work abroad so I can provide myself a stable life as well as my family in times of financial crisis. I also want to advance further in the craft of writing. Aside from that, I’m an advocate of Carpe Diem. My dreams are composed of the following: Writer, Visual artist, Businessman, Musician, Model, Trainer, Photographer and meeting my muse (wherever and whoever she is).
Melissa Carl: MELISSA CARL has been writing poetry for over fifteen years. She has published in various regional and national publications—both print and online---including the Fledgling Rag, the Hanover Evening Sun, the York Daily Record, Melusine, Amoskeag, The Journal of Southern New Hampshire University, Off the Coast Magazine. Her poems have won numerous awards, including two Pushcart nominations, three first place awards in the YorkArts WritersEye competition, the York Emporium anthology competition, Yesterday, I Will, and two Top Five Poem awards in the Writer’s Digest National Poetry Month Challenge. She teaches Honors World Cultures and Advanced Placement European history at the West York Area High School, where she also runs the gifted program.
Regina Klunk: I've been writing poems since I was in middle school. Of course I wrote about typical teenage stuff. I stopped for a little and then started up again in high school. But it didn't really hit me to right more mature poems, until my senior year. We learned a lot about Elizabethan sonnets, which is what my poems are now structured upon. It took me awhile to figure out what I wanted to write about. Finally , I came across this contest for a magazine located in Colorado. Shortly , after entering it for poetry and photography, I found out that this contest was worldwide. It kinda made me scared at first, but gave me more confidence in my writing, challenging myself to think bolder and open up my imagination. I have a poem that was in The Anthology of Poems by Young Americans, that was published when I was thirteen. I currently am finishing my last week of school at the Baltimore School of Massage-York Campus. A couple of weeks ago I composed a new sonnet based off of the touch of bodyworkers. My campus director was very delighted as well as my fellow classmates to see such appreciation for what we do.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
March Column
Published in The Evening Sun on March 28, 2010:
Even though I live in Chicago, technology has allowed me to stay closely connected to Hanover, especially the schools. A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to video chat with Mrs. Smith’s 12th grade Advanced Placement Literature and Composition class at Hanover High School. After discussing two of my poems with the class, we then wrote a collaborative poem based on last month’s column about perspective, titled “Fifteen Ways of Looking at Codorus.” This poem just reinforces the talent and potential of our young people in Hanover. As a group, we wrote this poem in five minutes, each adding our own stanza.
Fifteen Ways of Looking at Codorus
I
White paint marks a path through the woods
to reveal an open meadow.
Sun shining, flora drinking in the light.
II
The path I follow leads to the unknown
I know, I've been here before
III
my feet they do dance across the expanse
a path carving through the thicket
excitement about from joy I must shout
this is like a movie without buying the ticket
IV
A forest of green turned dark by fall.
Empty trees turned white by the snow.
V
Many birds flying around
starting to disappear with the cold.
Empty nests filled with the white of snow.
VI
Driving down the windy road -
The sign for the marina catches my eye.
Then the fishing and row boats make me curious
Yet every time, I end up sitting along the banks.
VII
The marina: boats, people, animals, trees
Look through your eyes and see
The beauty of this magnificent sea
VIII
I look at the large body of water.
It is calm, at peace. Geese float along
while they sing an out-of-tune song.
IX
Ducks float on the water, oblivious to my existence.
But when I pull out the bread from my bag...
they all come running.
X
at dark I'll depart for my car
and I'll dart to dinner by my own mother dear
XI
explore explore explore some more
time won't restrain me here
XII
Trees line the sun-kissed roads
Which do reflect the light
But my eyes can't help but gravitate
To the sparkling lake
XIII
the sun waves
under the pressure
of the water
I explode for air
XIV
Casting a hopeful line, waiting for the tug of joy.
Fighting to keep the tricky catch
Casting again when the joy is lost.
XV
Gravity pulls me down the hill
to the water's edge
feet tingling with the season's first soaking.
This poem reminds me that spring has become a reality, even though it is snowing in Chicago today. So, as the winter hangs her shaggy coat in the back of the closet and spring glides in on neon rollerskates, it is my wish that all of you, in some way, enjoy “the season’s first soaking,” even if you are drenched in nothing but sunshine.
April is National Poetry Month. In honor of this, I am hosting a poetry contest for people of all ages. Please send up to three poems to bradyke@gmail.com. The Poets Laureate of Hanover will judge the contest, and the winners will be featured on my blog.
Also, the Poets Laureate will give a reading in Eichelberger Performing Arts Center’s Observatory on April 11 at 7 p.m. The theme is “These are the Times,” a poetic interpretation of the seasons of our lives. Please visit my blog for more information about these events: http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com.
Even though I live in Chicago, technology has allowed me to stay closely connected to Hanover, especially the schools. A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to video chat with Mrs. Smith’s 12th grade Advanced Placement Literature and Composition class at Hanover High School. After discussing two of my poems with the class, we then wrote a collaborative poem based on last month’s column about perspective, titled “Fifteen Ways of Looking at Codorus.” This poem just reinforces the talent and potential of our young people in Hanover. As a group, we wrote this poem in five minutes, each adding our own stanza.
Fifteen Ways of Looking at Codorus
I
White paint marks a path through the woods
to reveal an open meadow.
Sun shining, flora drinking in the light.
II
The path I follow leads to the unknown
I know, I've been here before
III
my feet they do dance across the expanse
a path carving through the thicket
excitement about from joy I must shout
this is like a movie without buying the ticket
IV
A forest of green turned dark by fall.
Empty trees turned white by the snow.
V
Many birds flying around
starting to disappear with the cold.
Empty nests filled with the white of snow.
VI
Driving down the windy road -
The sign for the marina catches my eye.
Then the fishing and row boats make me curious
Yet every time, I end up sitting along the banks.
VII
The marina: boats, people, animals, trees
Look through your eyes and see
The beauty of this magnificent sea
VIII
I look at the large body of water.
It is calm, at peace. Geese float along
while they sing an out-of-tune song.
IX
Ducks float on the water, oblivious to my existence.
But when I pull out the bread from my bag...
they all come running.
X
at dark I'll depart for my car
and I'll dart to dinner by my own mother dear
XI
explore explore explore some more
time won't restrain me here
XII
Trees line the sun-kissed roads
Which do reflect the light
But my eyes can't help but gravitate
To the sparkling lake
XIII
the sun waves
under the pressure
of the water
I explode for air
XIV
Casting a hopeful line, waiting for the tug of joy.
Fighting to keep the tricky catch
Casting again when the joy is lost.
XV
Gravity pulls me down the hill
to the water's edge
feet tingling with the season's first soaking.
This poem reminds me that spring has become a reality, even though it is snowing in Chicago today. So, as the winter hangs her shaggy coat in the back of the closet and spring glides in on neon rollerskates, it is my wish that all of you, in some way, enjoy “the season’s first soaking,” even if you are drenched in nothing but sunshine.
April is National Poetry Month. In honor of this, I am hosting a poetry contest for people of all ages. Please send up to three poems to bradyke@gmail.com. The Poets Laureate of Hanover will judge the contest, and the winners will be featured on my blog.
Also, the Poets Laureate will give a reading in Eichelberger Performing Arts Center’s Observatory on April 11 at 7 p.m. The theme is “These are the Times,” a poetic interpretation of the seasons of our lives. Please visit my blog for more information about these events: http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Delone Alumnus and Poet
I recently had the pleasure of getting in touch with Samantha Burhman, a former student of Dana Sauers. While attending Shippensburg University, she continues to write poetry, and I was lucky enough to have her share some of her work with me.
When asked about her biography as a poet, Samantha wrote the following about herself: "I am a currently a Sophomore at Shippensburg University. I have moved about every three years of my life, which is something that has in turn shaped me into the person that I am today. I would like to think that I am inspired by a little bit of everything. However it's really the little moments that seem to stick with me. I got into writing poetry when I was younger. It started out as a way to get my thoughts down. Though the one person that has really inspired me to continue writing is Dana Sauers. She was my English teacher in 11th and 12th grade."
I'd like to share a couple of her poems with you:
Symbol of Wisdom
symbol of wisdom
Roots flow through every particle
twisting ,breaking ,and pulsating
tying together those that would be separated
life bringer and taker
upwards springs hope
caked with layers
rings of age
caresses your inner-being
symbol of wisdom
rides between my shoulder blades
white places ownership on you
bend to the mercy
a twisted fate
for white depends on your shelter
my soul bleeds for the coarseness of white
oh my symbol of wisdom with bending limbs
how we torture you beyond recognition
Fatherless Child
I am a fatherless child.
A broken drum that wants to beat one last time.
A rainbow that shines only at moments.
A smell that reminds me of,
sandalwood and cigarettes
comforting yet sickening.
A glimpse of light shinning through the sunless sky.
A faded picture, longing ensues.
A child searching cupboards for something,
Lost that can't be returned.
I am a fatherless child.
An adolescence not understanding what fatherly love is..
A dream of ocean waves lapping at my feet
Spraying foam and laughter.
A warmth that spread throughout
My heart gone cold again
A fatherless child.
Wishing that I was whole
A project not quite finished
Sharp glass pricks across my skin,
I run,
For lost memories
For a past I want to chase down,
Experience hugs, tears, kisses.
A protective presence that protects me
From every unwanted touch
That I am not ready for
But except as love
I am a fatherless child.
I hate not knowing your smile
when I walk down the white laced aisle,
Into the arms of another man,
But different love
A man who will love me
Past my mistake
Past my mistrust
Enduring all my pain as if
He were a part of myself
All along.
I am still a fatherless child.
A broken picture frame
You see the picture
Yet you can't get past the crack.
I am still a fatherless child.
Broken dreams and all.
I know above there is a
Childless father looking down.
I hope he smiles.
When asked about her biography as a poet, Samantha wrote the following about herself: "I am a currently a Sophomore at Shippensburg University. I have moved about every three years of my life, which is something that has in turn shaped me into the person that I am today. I would like to think that I am inspired by a little bit of everything. However it's really the little moments that seem to stick with me. I got into writing poetry when I was younger. It started out as a way to get my thoughts down. Though the one person that has really inspired me to continue writing is Dana Sauers. She was my English teacher in 11th and 12th grade."
I'd like to share a couple of her poems with you:
Symbol of Wisdom
symbol of wisdom
Roots flow through every particle
twisting ,breaking ,and pulsating
tying together those that would be separated
life bringer and taker
upwards springs hope
caked with layers
rings of age
caresses your inner-being
symbol of wisdom
rides between my shoulder blades
white places ownership on you
bend to the mercy
a twisted fate
for white depends on your shelter
my soul bleeds for the coarseness of white
oh my symbol of wisdom with bending limbs
how we torture you beyond recognition
Fatherless Child
I am a fatherless child.
A broken drum that wants to beat one last time.
A rainbow that shines only at moments.
A smell that reminds me of,
sandalwood and cigarettes
comforting yet sickening.
A glimpse of light shinning through the sunless sky.
A faded picture, longing ensues.
A child searching cupboards for something,
Lost that can't be returned.
I am a fatherless child.
An adolescence not understanding what fatherly love is..
A dream of ocean waves lapping at my feet
Spraying foam and laughter.
A warmth that spread throughout
My heart gone cold again
A fatherless child.
Wishing that I was whole
A project not quite finished
Sharp glass pricks across my skin,
I run,
For lost memories
For a past I want to chase down,
Experience hugs, tears, kisses.
A protective presence that protects me
From every unwanted touch
That I am not ready for
But except as love
I am a fatherless child.
I hate not knowing your smile
when I walk down the white laced aisle,
Into the arms of another man,
But different love
A man who will love me
Past my mistake
Past my mistrust
Enduring all my pain as if
He were a part of myself
All along.
I am still a fatherless child.
A broken picture frame
You see the picture
Yet you can't get past the crack.
I am still a fatherless child.
Broken dreams and all.
I know above there is a
Childless father looking down.
I hope he smiles.
"These Are the Times"
Hanover Poets Laureate will collaborate with Hanover Strings for an evening of poetry and music on April 11, 2010 at 7 p.m. Tickets are $15. For more information, please check out the Eichelberger Performing Arts Center's Conservatory page: http://www.theeich.org/conservatory_series.html.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Poetry Contest
First Annual Hanover Poet Laureate Poetry Contest
(In Honor of National Poetry Month)
Please submit up to three poems by Monday, April 12, 2010.
E-mail poems as separate Word attachments without your name on them to bradyke@gmail.com.
Please include your age category and a brief biography in the text of the email.
Winners will be featured on the Hanover Poet Laureate blog.
Judges will include current and former Poets Laureate: Dana Larkin Sauers, Michael J. Hoover, Anna Manahan Bowman, and Kate Brady.
Age Categories:
1. First to Fourth Graders
2. Fifth to Eighth Graders
3. Ninth to Twelfth Graders
4. Adults
If you have questions, please send me an email. :)
(In Honor of National Poetry Month)
Please submit up to three poems by Monday, April 12, 2010.
E-mail poems as separate Word attachments without your name on them to bradyke@gmail.com.
Please include your age category and a brief biography in the text of the email.
Winners will be featured on the Hanover Poet Laureate blog.
Judges will include current and former Poets Laureate: Dana Larkin Sauers, Michael J. Hoover, Anna Manahan Bowman, and Kate Brady.
Age Categories:
1. First to Fourth Graders
2. Fifth to Eighth Graders
3. Ninth to Twelfth Graders
4. Adults
If you have questions, please send me an email. :)
Saturday, February 27, 2010
"Thirteen Ways of Looking at a _____________"
In my column for this month, I included parts of Wallace Stevens' "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." I'm hoping we can use this great model to write our own "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a ________" poems. Every week I facilitate a reading and writing group in a Chicago homeless shelter. This past Thursday we wrote a collaborative piece, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at Wrigley Field." It is posted under the comments section of this post. Whether you write one alone or as a collaboration, please post your poem as a comment to this post!
Poems and the City
Mai Linh and I chose to read by Lake Michigan in the Gold Coast neighborhood of Chicago. Making this choice, we also chose a soundtrack for our texts: cars humming behind us and cabs beeping on Lake Shore Drive. I'm struck by the seeming clash of quiet and sound here. However, sometimes poems in our minds are just as loud. For example, in this last photograph, I am reading Allen Ginsberg's Howl. I believe there is no better location to read his genius, change-the-system work than right in the middle of the action. We also read other poems by Melissa Carl, Dana Sauers, and Crystal Williams. :)
Perspective Photograph Challenge
My challenge to you this month is to take a picture of yourself or someone else reading a poem in a particular place. Then, write a caption, describing how perspective (or place) informs your interpretation of it. I've posted a few to get us started!
February Column
(Published in The Evening Sun on February 28, 2010)
While growing up, whenever we went on a trip, my family was sure to pack a copy of the “Merchandiser,” so we could take a picture reading it in a new place and send it back to the publication. Essentially, this ritual was a practice in perspective. Reading the same publication in different places surely changes the way you interpret the text. In the spirit of the “Merchandiser” photographs, I challenge you to think more deeply about perspective and its connection to reading and writing this month. Whether you travel to Antarctica or walk to the other side of the hall, your perspective changes.
For a writer, this change helps to build a body of work. Perspective is the hammer in a poet’s toolbelt. It helps a writer reach beneath the surface of an idea and taps into the depth and layers a poet loves to work with. For me, perspective is invaluable. It has influenced the voice, style, and content of my poems and inspired my first book manuscript.
I experienced the power of perspective first-hand. After growing up on a farm in Hanover and attending college in rural Virginia, I decided to pursue an MFA in Poetry in Chicago. At the time, I did not realize how much this move from country to city, East Coast to Midwest, would influence my work. However, living in this new, urban environment, I was suddenly able to write about the country, a topic I had barely scratched the surface of while living on the farm. Poems set in Hanover began to pour from my consciousness. At first this did not make sense to me, not until I understood the gifts perspective brings.
The main reason for this new ability was distance to reflect and think. I could now see my experiences at an arm’s length and write about them without my present location raising blinders. Suddenly, I was in a world where people do not fill their freezers with their own home-grown vegetables and pasture-raised steers, where the scent of horse manure is absent, and where cement replaces fields. In the absence of these expectations, each detail of the country stood out more starkly than before.
After the shock of these contrasts set in, and I began to write more about the country, I then began to notice connections. Before I knew it, I was traveling on the bus past the projects and making connections to home, to farm life. I know that this does not sound reasonable, but it happened. The most amazing connection I made was that people in the most rural and urban areas share a sense of grit. People know what it means to work hard and live off instinct. This epiphany led me to work on my first book manuscript, titled “Grit,” which takes the reader through my transition from country to city.
Perspective certainly comes with travel and distance. However, it can also appear when one is open to possibilities. The more ways you look at a situation or object, the more deeply you understand it. Wallace Stevens, a Modern poet, illustrates this well in his study, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.” In each stanza of the poem, he considers the blackbird in a different way.
Stevens opens the poem with:
"Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird."
His first study of the blackbird emphasizes perspective. He looks at this enormous, white landscape of “twenty. . .mountains”; yet, only the eye of the blackbird, the most minute detail, moves. In the fifth stanza, he continues:
"I do not know which to prefer—
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after."
Here the study submerges itself in ideology, as he ponders which perspective he likes better: the song or the moment after the song. The poem continues on for thirteen stanzas, each giving a different perspective of the blackbird. Stevens ends the poem with:
"It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs."
In this study of the blackbird, Stevens cues in on the blackbird’s alienation amid this winter storm and the seemingly never-ending night. Think of how different it would be to read this poem in the summer than during the blizzard we just experienced. This is the power of perspective.
Here is my challenge to you: Log onto my blog, http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com, and post a photograph of yourself reading or writing in a particular place. Then, write a caption about how perspective informs your understanding of the text. I also hope this will inspire “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a _____” poems. Feel free to send them to me!
While growing up, whenever we went on a trip, my family was sure to pack a copy of the “Merchandiser,” so we could take a picture reading it in a new place and send it back to the publication. Essentially, this ritual was a practice in perspective. Reading the same publication in different places surely changes the way you interpret the text. In the spirit of the “Merchandiser” photographs, I challenge you to think more deeply about perspective and its connection to reading and writing this month. Whether you travel to Antarctica or walk to the other side of the hall, your perspective changes.
For a writer, this change helps to build a body of work. Perspective is the hammer in a poet’s toolbelt. It helps a writer reach beneath the surface of an idea and taps into the depth and layers a poet loves to work with. For me, perspective is invaluable. It has influenced the voice, style, and content of my poems and inspired my first book manuscript.
I experienced the power of perspective first-hand. After growing up on a farm in Hanover and attending college in rural Virginia, I decided to pursue an MFA in Poetry in Chicago. At the time, I did not realize how much this move from country to city, East Coast to Midwest, would influence my work. However, living in this new, urban environment, I was suddenly able to write about the country, a topic I had barely scratched the surface of while living on the farm. Poems set in Hanover began to pour from my consciousness. At first this did not make sense to me, not until I understood the gifts perspective brings.
The main reason for this new ability was distance to reflect and think. I could now see my experiences at an arm’s length and write about them without my present location raising blinders. Suddenly, I was in a world where people do not fill their freezers with their own home-grown vegetables and pasture-raised steers, where the scent of horse manure is absent, and where cement replaces fields. In the absence of these expectations, each detail of the country stood out more starkly than before.
After the shock of these contrasts set in, and I began to write more about the country, I then began to notice connections. Before I knew it, I was traveling on the bus past the projects and making connections to home, to farm life. I know that this does not sound reasonable, but it happened. The most amazing connection I made was that people in the most rural and urban areas share a sense of grit. People know what it means to work hard and live off instinct. This epiphany led me to work on my first book manuscript, titled “Grit,” which takes the reader through my transition from country to city.
Perspective certainly comes with travel and distance. However, it can also appear when one is open to possibilities. The more ways you look at a situation or object, the more deeply you understand it. Wallace Stevens, a Modern poet, illustrates this well in his study, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.” In each stanza of the poem, he considers the blackbird in a different way.
Stevens opens the poem with:
"Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird."
His first study of the blackbird emphasizes perspective. He looks at this enormous, white landscape of “twenty. . .mountains”; yet, only the eye of the blackbird, the most minute detail, moves. In the fifth stanza, he continues:
"I do not know which to prefer—
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after."
Here the study submerges itself in ideology, as he ponders which perspective he likes better: the song or the moment after the song. The poem continues on for thirteen stanzas, each giving a different perspective of the blackbird. Stevens ends the poem with:
"It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs."
In this study of the blackbird, Stevens cues in on the blackbird’s alienation amid this winter storm and the seemingly never-ending night. Think of how different it would be to read this poem in the summer than during the blizzard we just experienced. This is the power of perspective.
Here is my challenge to you: Log onto my blog, http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com, and post a photograph of yourself reading or writing in a particular place. Then, write a caption about how perspective informs your understanding of the text. I also hope this will inspire “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a _____” poems. Feel free to send them to me!
January Column
(Published in The Evening Sun on January 30, 2010)
With great honor and respect for those who came before me, I undertake my first column as Hanover's Poet Laureate. When Dana Larkin Sauers began her tenure as Poet Laureate, she sent out her "Letter to the World." This article, mailed to me in Virginia by my mother, became essentially the first words of our friendship. I wrote back, met her at Reader's Cafe, and the rest is history. Our friendship, fueled by poetry, has branched into my friendship with the other former Poets Laureate: Michael Hoover and Anna Bowman. The close relationships I forged with them began with the words of this column, and I hope to act as a similar link, bringing people together for the sake of words.
There is no doubt that poetry has become a mainstay in Hanover culture. The circle of Hanover Poets continues to grow in number and talent. I must say that without the work of the former Poets Laureate, the work I plan to do would not be possible. You have set a rock-hard foundation, and I hope to continue to build upon this throughout my tenure as Poet Laureate.
Though I currently do not live in Hanover, it will always be home to me, the place where I developed my character. I grew up on a horse farm just south of Hanover, and I carry that heritage along everywhere I go:
Poem for Hanover
It's a risk being from anywhere.
I am from soil and of soil.
When someone mentions birth, placenta,
I think horse, not human.
The first placenta I saw and carried in a bucket was my mare's.
She was okay with this, because I sang her calm,
the scent of my breath close to her nostrils.
Meanwhile, my father buried it in the woods
away from the dog.
A year later, we gelded the colt.
My sister, a pre-vet major, stored the testicles in a jar to study them.
I bragged about them to my friends at school and
my 6th grade crush turned from the front of the auditorium
to embarrass me during chorus.
I began to like him the day we helped our dads haul sawdust.
When they asked us to sweep the beds of the trucks together,
I hummed The Judds
and thought, What a great story to tell at our wedding!
I am from tradition, but of grit.
That's why I can take a shot of tequila without the lime or salt,
why I can discuss butchering during a meal.
That's why I can taste when the soil is fertile and dark,
ready for my knees.
As I begin to plant my own seeds as Poet Laureate, I have assembled a list of several goals to accomplish during my tenure. First, I will institute a Hanover Poet Laureate blog and facebook page. Since I live and work in Chicago, my visits back to Hanover for programming will be limited. However, in this technological age, I see no reason why we can't continue to build relationships to poetry and our community wherever we are.
The blog and facebook page will act as the main communications between you and me; however, I will also facilitate poetry-related activities each time I am in the Hanover area. Plans for my work include leading poetry workshops and competitions within the schools, publishing local work on the blog, and challenging the community to take part in Hanover's growing poetry scene. Please check out my blog at http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com, and find me on facebook under “Hanover Poet Laureate.”
Whether you are someone who reads every day, or someone who hasn't read a poem since high school, you cannot deny that our world is packed full of relationships, metaphors, comparisons. Our world is essentially full of poetry. The challenge is to see how this art manifests itself in our lives and to record it on the page. We all have the capacity to notice and record; in fact, we are all poets in this act alone.
With great honor and respect for those who came before me, I undertake my first column as Hanover's Poet Laureate. When Dana Larkin Sauers began her tenure as Poet Laureate, she sent out her "Letter to the World." This article, mailed to me in Virginia by my mother, became essentially the first words of our friendship. I wrote back, met her at Reader's Cafe, and the rest is history. Our friendship, fueled by poetry, has branched into my friendship with the other former Poets Laureate: Michael Hoover and Anna Bowman. The close relationships I forged with them began with the words of this column, and I hope to act as a similar link, bringing people together for the sake of words.
There is no doubt that poetry has become a mainstay in Hanover culture. The circle of Hanover Poets continues to grow in number and talent. I must say that without the work of the former Poets Laureate, the work I plan to do would not be possible. You have set a rock-hard foundation, and I hope to continue to build upon this throughout my tenure as Poet Laureate.
Though I currently do not live in Hanover, it will always be home to me, the place where I developed my character. I grew up on a horse farm just south of Hanover, and I carry that heritage along everywhere I go:
Poem for Hanover
It's a risk being from anywhere.
I am from soil and of soil.
When someone mentions birth, placenta,
I think horse, not human.
The first placenta I saw and carried in a bucket was my mare's.
She was okay with this, because I sang her calm,
the scent of my breath close to her nostrils.
Meanwhile, my father buried it in the woods
away from the dog.
A year later, we gelded the colt.
My sister, a pre-vet major, stored the testicles in a jar to study them.
I bragged about them to my friends at school and
my 6th grade crush turned from the front of the auditorium
to embarrass me during chorus.
I began to like him the day we helped our dads haul sawdust.
When they asked us to sweep the beds of the trucks together,
I hummed The Judds
and thought, What a great story to tell at our wedding!
I am from tradition, but of grit.
That's why I can take a shot of tequila without the lime or salt,
why I can discuss butchering during a meal.
That's why I can taste when the soil is fertile and dark,
ready for my knees.
As I begin to plant my own seeds as Poet Laureate, I have assembled a list of several goals to accomplish during my tenure. First, I will institute a Hanover Poet Laureate blog and facebook page. Since I live and work in Chicago, my visits back to Hanover for programming will be limited. However, in this technological age, I see no reason why we can't continue to build relationships to poetry and our community wherever we are.
The blog and facebook page will act as the main communications between you and me; however, I will also facilitate poetry-related activities each time I am in the Hanover area. Plans for my work include leading poetry workshops and competitions within the schools, publishing local work on the blog, and challenging the community to take part in Hanover's growing poetry scene. Please check out my blog at http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com, and find me on facebook under “Hanover Poet Laureate.”
Whether you are someone who reads every day, or someone who hasn't read a poem since high school, you cannot deny that our world is packed full of relationships, metaphors, comparisons. Our world is essentially full of poetry. The challenge is to see how this art manifests itself in our lives and to record it on the page. We all have the capacity to notice and record; in fact, we are all poets in this act alone.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Power of Poetry
Every Thursday night I facilitate a reading and writing group at a Chicago homeless shelter. Since the past two Thursdays hugged Valentine's Day, I decided to focus on love poems with the men at the shelter. Last week we began with the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. At first, the theater of it all was funny and the text incomprehensible. However, after doing a reading in the balcony of the church where we meet, we sat down together to look at the text more closely. The results were amazing!
Besides the expected line, "I need to memorize some of these lines so that I can use them on some women," men were also enamored by the depth of Romeo's words. "Wow, Kate, Romeo really loves Juliet!" They really began to appreciate the precision and depth of Shakespeare's metaphors after analyzing the text and began to make connections to their own lives and their own worlds (far from Shakespeare's London). This makes me really appreciate the power of poetry and literature.
A few days ago, back at the shelter, we read non-traditional love poems: Dorianne Laux's "Facts About the Moon" and Stanley Kunitz's "Touch Me." These poems yielded even more success. Written in more contemporary language with more contemporary takes on the realities of love, these poems spoke to the men. Two men who had never felt poetry was accessible to them fell in love with words on Thursday night. What a beautiful thing!
My experiences creating and facilitating this program have only increased my faith that literacy works. It draws people together; it feeds confidence; it makes us see the world from a different perspective. Most of all, it heals us. If anyone is interested in starting a program like this in the community, please be in touch. I'd love to help you get started.
Besides the expected line, "I need to memorize some of these lines so that I can use them on some women," men were also enamored by the depth of Romeo's words. "Wow, Kate, Romeo really loves Juliet!" They really began to appreciate the precision and depth of Shakespeare's metaphors after analyzing the text and began to make connections to their own lives and their own worlds (far from Shakespeare's London). This makes me really appreciate the power of poetry and literature.
A few days ago, back at the shelter, we read non-traditional love poems: Dorianne Laux's "Facts About the Moon" and Stanley Kunitz's "Touch Me." These poems yielded even more success. Written in more contemporary language with more contemporary takes on the realities of love, these poems spoke to the men. Two men who had never felt poetry was accessible to them fell in love with words on Thursday night. What a beautiful thing!
My experiences creating and facilitating this program have only increased my faith that literacy works. It draws people together; it feeds confidence; it makes us see the world from a different perspective. Most of all, it heals us. If anyone is interested in starting a program like this in the community, please be in touch. I'd love to help you get started.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Dana Larkin Sauers Releases "My Letter to the World"
Dear friend, Dana Larkin Sauers, has worked hard on her second book, My Letter to the World, a wonderful collection of her columns and poetry. Please check out the link below to order!
Click here for more information about previous Hanover Poet Laureate's newest book.
Click here for more information about previous Hanover Poet Laureate's newest book.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Open Mic at Reader's Cafe
4th MONDAY night, January 25, 2010:
No Feature, but YOU!!!
ENJOY an OPEN MIC FREE FOR ALL!!
All happens at The Reader's Cafe in Hanover, PA,17331 125 Broadway, 2 blocks east of the square.
Audience Q&A with/among ourselves!
7:30 start. See you there. Send, inform, invite or bring friends!! Pass this along, please.
Support Indie Book Stores--Reader's has unique and mainstream selections, great coffee, tea, soda, and chai, wonderful soups and sandwiches. Come early; stay till 10 p.m.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
What is a Poet Laureate?
The most common question I've been asked since being appointed Poet Laureate is, "What is a Poet Laureate?" People of all occupations, education levels, classes, etc. have asked the same question; so I can deduce that ignorance about this position does not discriminate. Don't feel bad if you don't know "exactly" what a Poet Laureate is; no one (except for a poet) does. :)
It's sort of like the rock star poet problem. There are many poets who I would swoon over if they walked in the room, even more so than teenagers do over that vampire. However, the problem is that only poets know celebrity poets. For example, I was so excited about some of my new poet friends on facebook that I told my non-poet friends about it. When they asked who the poets were, I just responded, "Well, nevermind, you don't know them." For them to know one of my new poet friends, I would have had to say Emily Dickinson or Maya Angelou. So is the problem that poets are selfish and exclusive? Well, I doubt it. I think the problem is that people are not educated about poetry. So, they don't understand it, and then, essentially, don't care. And this brings me to the first job of the Poet Laureate. (Were you wondering when I was going to come full-circle?)
To me, the Poet Laureateship carries with it a great responsibility to poetry. A Poet Laureate is an advocate for the art and tries to promote poetry in whatever community he or she is appointed in. There are Poets Laureate of countries, such as England, where this all began, but there are also Poets Laureate of states and cities. Not every government has this appointed position; so, I feel grateful to Hanover for instituting this position years ago.
If you think about the etymology of the word, it comes from the word "laurel," a sign of victory, which means all Poets Laureate are winners. Just kidding! However, laurel was used as a mark of distinction. That base word can also be found in other words, such as "baccalaureate," the word for a bachelor's degree. In this case again, the "laurel" marks a distinction, the earning of a degree. So, the title "Poet Laureate" carries with it a distinction for your writing and commitment to advocating for poetry. More specifically, for Hanover, PA, it also carries with it the column in The Evening Sun and the opportunity to pen poems for community events.
For all you history folks, according to www.answers.com, this position was used in Medieval Europe as an award at universities, but later became a salaried position in government. "The salary has varied, but traditionally includes some alcohol." I read that Chaucer traded his distinction for wine.
It's sort of like the rock star poet problem. There are many poets who I would swoon over if they walked in the room, even more so than teenagers do over that vampire. However, the problem is that only poets know celebrity poets. For example, I was so excited about some of my new poet friends on facebook that I told my non-poet friends about it. When they asked who the poets were, I just responded, "Well, nevermind, you don't know them." For them to know one of my new poet friends, I would have had to say Emily Dickinson or Maya Angelou. So is the problem that poets are selfish and exclusive? Well, I doubt it. I think the problem is that people are not educated about poetry. So, they don't understand it, and then, essentially, don't care. And this brings me to the first job of the Poet Laureate. (Were you wondering when I was going to come full-circle?)
To me, the Poet Laureateship carries with it a great responsibility to poetry. A Poet Laureate is an advocate for the art and tries to promote poetry in whatever community he or she is appointed in. There are Poets Laureate of countries, such as England, where this all began, but there are also Poets Laureate of states and cities. Not every government has this appointed position; so, I feel grateful to Hanover for instituting this position years ago.
If you think about the etymology of the word, it comes from the word "laurel," a sign of victory, which means all Poets Laureate are winners. Just kidding! However, laurel was used as a mark of distinction. That base word can also be found in other words, such as "baccalaureate," the word for a bachelor's degree. In this case again, the "laurel" marks a distinction, the earning of a degree. So, the title "Poet Laureate" carries with it a distinction for your writing and commitment to advocating for poetry. More specifically, for Hanover, PA, it also carries with it the column in The Evening Sun and the opportunity to pen poems for community events.
For all you history folks, according to www.answers.com, this position was used in Medieval Europe as an award at universities, but later became a salaried position in government. "The salary has varied, but traditionally includes some alcohol." I read that Chaucer traded his distinction for wine.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
My Week in Hanover Area Schools
I had the great opportunity this week to meet with several educators and administrators in the Hanover area, in hopes that I can be involved with students and faculty during my tenure as Poet Laureate. My ideas for collaboration were met with much enthusiasm, and I'm excited about the partnerships I've started with educators in the area. I'd like to especially thank the following individuals for their time and openness for poetry:
Mr. Samuelsen, Principal of Hanover High School
Mrs. Smith, Faculty of Hanover High School
Mr. Krout, Principal of Washington Elementary
Ms. Porter, Librarian at EHMIS
Mr. Duckworth, Principal of EHMIS
Mr. Graves, Principal of South Western High School
Mrs. Greenholt, Librarian at South Western High School
Mrs. Kern, Faculty of South Western High School
Ms. Alric, Faculty of South Western High School
Mr. Wilcox, Faculty of South Western High School
Mr. Hershner, Principal of Hanover Street Elementary
I'd also like to say a special thanks to Mr. Vega, Mrs. Brodbeck, and their classes at South Western High School for allowing me to come into their classrooms and teach a poetry lesson this week. I really enjoyed my time with the students creating weather metaphors and freestyling. :)
I wasn't able to get around to all area schools this week, but if you'd be interested in partnering with me, please stay tuned. I plan to post videos on the blog that will introduce myself and my ideas to faculty and students. Also, feel free to contact me with your ideas.
Mr. Samuelsen, Principal of Hanover High School
Mrs. Smith, Faculty of Hanover High School
Mr. Krout, Principal of Washington Elementary
Ms. Porter, Librarian at EHMIS
Mr. Duckworth, Principal of EHMIS
Mr. Graves, Principal of South Western High School
Mrs. Greenholt, Librarian at South Western High School
Mrs. Kern, Faculty of South Western High School
Ms. Alric, Faculty of South Western High School
Mr. Wilcox, Faculty of South Western High School
Mr. Hershner, Principal of Hanover Street Elementary
I'd also like to say a special thanks to Mr. Vega, Mrs. Brodbeck, and their classes at South Western High School for allowing me to come into their classrooms and teach a poetry lesson this week. I really enjoyed my time with the students creating weather metaphors and freestyling. :)
I wasn't able to get around to all area schools this week, but if you'd be interested in partnering with me, please stay tuned. I plan to post videos on the blog that will introduce myself and my ideas to faculty and students. Also, feel free to contact me with your ideas.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Four Poets Laureate of Hanover
On Monday, at the Hanover Borough Council meeting, the Poet Laureateship was handed over to me from Michael Hoover. Thanks to Anna Bowman, Dana Sauers, Michael Hoover, and family for supporting me at the event. And thanks again to the Hanover Borough Council for appointing me.
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